Hairy London

by Stephen Palmer

  “No,” Velvene said. “Surely he cannot be shrinking men? It is inhumane.”

  “He’s inhumane,” Pertrand replied. “We gotta stop him.”

  Velvene agreed. “But how, eh?”

  “There’s only one of him and two of us. Easy. And I got one bullet left. Come on!”

  Before Velvene could stop him, Pertrand leaped aside and stormed through the door, running into the bonsai room with his revolver raised. Velvene followed, making sure his mask remained firm upon his face.

  “Lord Blackanore!” Pertrand shouted. “I’m doing a citizen’s arrest on you for crimes against the working class. Hands up.”

  Lord Blackanore stared at Pertrand, glanced at Velvene, then returned his gaze to the revolver. “Is that loaded?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Now move away from that there bonsai.”

  Lord Blackanore remained where he was. “I am afraid there is more to consider than your revolver, my good man,” he said. “I am performing a vital government experiment, which you disrupt at your peril. I suspect a jail sentence would be in order if word got out of what you were doing–”

  “Move away from that bonsai, or I fire!”

  “Go on then. Shoot me.”

  Velvene stood horrified, unable to speak, even to move for fear of revealing himself. Pertrand’s arm began to tremble.

  Lord Blackanore picked something up from the table with a pair of chopsticks then took a step forward. “So you do not have the courage to shoot an innocent man. I very much suspected that would be the case.”

  “Stand still!”

  Lord Blackanore took another step forward. “Now hand over the revolver my good man, and perhaps I shall be lenient with you. What the zoo authorities would think of this I really do not know–”

  Pertrand fired. Lord Blackanore bent over, grunted, then leaned upon the table. Blood oozed from his stomach, but then he looked up, raised the chopsticks and threw something – a dart it seemed to Velvene – that struck Pertrand in the neck, bit, then wriggled.

  Pertrand pulled it off at once, but it was too late. “A krait!” he croaked, and with that fell to the floor.

  Lord Blackanore turned to Velvene. “Whoever you are,” he groaned, “have mercy upon me and fetch help. I am wounded!”

  Velvene stared at Pertrand. The krait, little more than six inches long, was the deadly yellow banded species. Pertrand was a gonner. Velvene jumped forward, snapped the trunk of the bonsai tree, then sped out of the room, running at top speed to the elephant enclosure, where for a few moments he stumbled around in panic, unable to locate the machinora. Then he bumped into it. He leaped inside the wicker capacity, fired up the heatorix and cast off. Moments later he ascended above the corral, to safety.

  This time, events did not bring tears to his eyes. Shock enervated him. A black mood came to his mind as he considered all the terrible things he had seen, and he realised he wanted no more of violent revolution. He was still a changed man, with a new view of himself and of the society he had once inhabited, but now he had finished with upheaval and bloody action. He had a wager to win.

  Tacking against the wind, the chameleonic Archimedean floating system carried him back to Gordon Square. He found the four remaining members of the raiding party sitting around their typewriter, hard at work, with Sylfia Fermicelli dictating.

  “Well, I bring tragic news,” he said.

  Sylfia’s dark eyes stared unblinking at him. She was a striking young woman, half Ethiopique, Velvene suspected, and decent – for a woman – though rather too forward for his liking. “What’s happened?” she asked, approaching him.

  “Lord Blackanore got Pertrand. He is dead. The Marxist-Leninist Workers’ Movement Of London is over, it is undone. I am so very sorry.”

  Sylfia buckled as she heard the news, clinging on to a chair. The others wailed and gasped.

  “I cannot remain here,” Velvene continued. “I thank you for your kindness to me, but I must go. I have a mission of my own, one more personal than yours, that, having met you, I can now undertake. I thank you once more for starting me on my journey.” He shrugged. “I wish you the very best of Britisher luck, eh?”

  “Yes…” Sylfia murmured.

  Velvene walked to his box room, where he gathered his belongings and threw them into the rucksack. Then he went to put the clay figure on its trolley.

  It had changed further. In pale moonlight he saw the ghost of a face, a woman’s face, and a hint of… well, they looked like those glands specific to women best not mentioned in polite company. The hips were broader, the shoulders narrower, the thighs rounder.

  “Great Oates!” Velvene whispered. “Whatever will I do now?”

  The figure required clothes at once. Unwilling to ask Sylfia or the two other women for assistance, Velvene manhandled the figure to his bed and dressed it in an old pair of trews, then a mildew-blackened shirt and a jacket of canvas such as cricketeers wore. Then he raised it to its feet. The figure stood without wobbling, as if perfectly balanced on its shapely feet.

  Velvene hauled it onto the trolley, then headed for the door, and the roof.

  Sylfia stopped him beside the attic steps. “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “I do not know,” he replied. Gesturing upwards he said, “To load my machinora, then depart. That is all I can say.”

  “What’s this personal mission you mentioned?”

  “Well, that is rather tricky to explain. It involves plumbing the depths of the human mind in pursuit of a wager. Beyond your capacities, dear lady.”

  “Is it?” Sylfia replied.

  Velvene hesitated, then coughed. “Well, I expect so.”

  “If you’re interested in the mind you should see Mr Freud.”

  “Mr Freud?”

  “The psychonaut. He lives in Hampstead.”

  Velvene harrumphed and muttered, “Possibly I underestimated your knowledge of such matters. Thank you anyway for those directions.”

  Sylfia’s gaze turned to the figure. “Who is she?”

  “I do not know. A… project of mine.” Uncomfortable with such personal questions he lifted the figure and pushed it up into the attic. “Goodbye. We shall not meet again. As I said before, I wish you and all Marxist-Leninists luck.”

  “And me you,” Sylfia replied.

  The winds blew still to the north west. Velvene cast off, using the machinora rudders to head for Hampstead.

  ~

  The weeks passed by inside Kew Gardens. Three weeks, as Gandy had said. Then Eastachia and Kornukope were taken from their luxury cell to a palm glade at the north end of the glasshouse, where Gandy had his personal residence.

  After chay and a light snack of gajar ka halwa he said, “The time has come for us to make a move on Downing Street. All my forces are ready.”

  Eastachia began to fret. With her handbag impounded she had been unable to send any more warning letters, while the lack of any attack on Kew Gardens suggested the Prime Minister and his Cabinet were little concerned by her last missive. If only she had stated the three week timing!

  But surely police officers, even soldiers were watching Kew? It was inconceivable that the government would ignore the Indoo peril. Most likely a ring of heavily armed men surrounded the place, ready to bring down the machines and the Indoo themselves. And that three week lack of letters…

  She sighed. In hairy London nothing was easy, least of all if it involved travel. Blandhubble, she suspected, would wait and do nothing.

  “Do not fret, Eastachia,” Gandy said. “There will be no danger for you. In fact you, Kornukope and I will have the most interesting of times as we head north east.”

  “We’re going with you?” she said.

  Kornukope added, “You mean to incorporate us into your forces?”

  “There will be no need for force,” Gandy said, enunciating the word as if it was a curse. “Do you see an army inside Kew Gardens?”

  “I see metal machines on legs,” Eastachia r
etorted.

  “Do you see guns?”

  “Well… no,” she said.

  “I am a subtle man,” said Gandy. “Subtly violent, that is. You may call me thuggish if you wish, I should take it as a compliment. No indeed, there will be no fighting. You two and I will fly upon a winged goddess, where we shall use your…” and here he pointed at Kornukope, “… personal rapport to fool the Prime Minister into contracting the anglocide germs. He then will pass the disease on to his colleagues as if it were a dose of the common cold.”

  Kornukope frowned. “I would never betray my government like that.”

  “You will if I torture your wife.”

  Kornukope turned white. “You are a monster. A bastard monster.”

  “First correct, second incorrect,” Gandy responded with a laugh. “I know both my parents.”

  Kornukope spat upon the floor. “The King should have cut off more than your hands. He should have emasculated you, sir.”

  At this, Gandy’s face turned ruddy, and the tentacles on his left hand writhed. “You will regret saying that when I sit in Number Ten,” he growled. “There will be harsh punishments.” He paused, then chuckled and said, “Maybe I shall cause a Black Hole Of Bloomsbury to be constructed. What do you think of that, Kornukope Wetherbee of the so-called Suicide Club?”

  Eastachia reached out to touch Kornukope’s arm in an effort to calm him. “Let the man have his say,” she whispered.

  Kornukope frowned, but said nothing more.

  Gandy stood up. “It is time to depart. Everything is ready. Follow me and do everything I tell you. If you refuse, or if you try to outwit me, I shall kill you with this Derringer.” He took out a small, widebore gun from a fold in his dhoti.

  “Yes, yes, we understand,” Kornukope said with a sigh. “The gun is mightier than the word.”

  “So you do have guns,” Eastachia said.

  “Just the one,” he replied with a smile.

  They were taken alongside a thuggish escort to a platform that had been constructed near Syon House, upon which stood an immense bronze statue of Kali, such as Eastachia had seen in the secret places of Moonbai. At the Durga’s feet a number of upturned skull pans had been welded, eight feet in diameter, in which cushions lay arranged. Beneath Kali lay her tiger vehicle. Her breasts were purest lapis lazuli, while her contumacy was implied by the sharpened flutes that she carried.

  “We designed this is association with Konstantin Tsiolkovsky,” Gandy said.

  “Who?”

  “The Russio scientist, superior to Fleming. Now get inside the skull pans.”

  This they did, Eastachia and Kornukope in one, while Gandy took another, arranging himself in a decadent pose on the Madras yellow silk cushions. Eastachia found a box of Turkish Deliciousness on a ledge at the side of the skull pan, which she opened and sampled.

  “What now?” she asked.

  Gandy replied, “We shall fly to Downing Street. There, Kornukope will use his influence to get inside Number Ten, pretending that he has captured me.” He patted the satin satchel that he wore across his naked chest. “The anglocide is safe,” he added.

  “But they won’t believe Kornukope’s story,” said Eastachia. “No prisoner would be taken there.”

  “Kornukope will explain that the Prime Minister wishes to interview me about Home Rule,” Gandy replied. “I will pretend to be his prisoner. I am a very good actor, you know. But whatever happens, you will get me inside Number Ten. If you do not…”

  “Very well,” Eastachia muttered.

  With that, Gandy gave the signal for the Durga to be vivified, whereupon the multitude of her hands began flapping like the wings of birds, and they rose; and Kali was a good aeronaut, her black eyes flashing in the sun as she scoured the air around. Gandy’s round-lens spectacles also flashed in the sun, but still brighter was his smile.

  For a while the flight of the Durga was calm, until they hit some turbulence. Eastachia grasped the sides of the skull pan, feeling sick.

  Gandy called out, “Do not panic!”

  Eastachia, peering north east into the City, replied, “What are those Archimedean floating systems up ahead?”

  Gandy turned to look, then cursed in Urdu: Ap ke pas machchhar marne wali dava hai?

  “What did he say?” Kornukope asked.

  “He’s asking for mosquito repellent. It’s a traditional insult to our engineering abilities.”

  “The cad!”

  Eastachia pointed to the two nearest Archimedean floating systems, from whose willow baskets poked the muzzles of revolvers.

  “Gandy, you’ll be fired upon if you trespass through the air,” she called out. “Central London is protected. Land this machinora as soon as you can!”

  But he refused to listen, using the lotus blossom controls to pilot a way through the barrage of Archimedean floating systems. Bullets whizzed by. Eastachia and Kornukope hid in the bottom of their skull pan, frightened for their lives, but Gandy seemed exhilarated by the chase and the danger, screaming for joy.

  “He’s a madman,” Kornukope groaned. “We’ll be pulverised to damson jam on the earth below.”

  “We’re not dead yet,” Eastachia said, gripping the side of the skull pan. “He really can fly this terrible machinora.”

  Kali Durga span, dropped and soared, until she escaped every one of the enemy. Downing Street was now but a mile away; Westminster Cathedral approaching, Victoria Railway Station below. Eastachia began to wonder if Gandy’s plan might work. Minutes later they descended, landing with a bump in the rear garden of Number Ten. The eyes of the Durga faded and her multiplicity of hands drooped, hissing as they expelled azure vapours; the air filled with the scent of Nag Champa incense.

  A burly policeman walked out into the garden, calling, “Hoy! You there!”

  Kornukope, with no other choice, took Gandy to his side and effected an armtwist lock, so that it appeared Gandy was in his power. “I have the man for you,” he shouted. “Bring out the Prime Minister!”

  The policeman halted. Eastachia saw that Gandy concealed in one hand the Derringer. The policeman said, “Who the devil are you?”

  “I am Kornukope Wetherbee of the Suicide Club, and I have captured the rogue Nohandas Gandy – the vile, stinking, weak, arrogant, wretched, cowardly, feeble-minded, deluded, murderous and above all impuissant rogue Gandy. Fetch Lord Gorge!”

  The policeman turned to run into the building. They waited.

  Then Gandy whispered, “Stay where you are, Kornukope. Move and I will shoot you. I cannot miss at this range.”

  Kornukope said nothing.

  Gandy glanced over his shoulder at Eastachia. “You stay motionless also.”

  From the corner of her eye Eastachia saw a figure emerge from the back door. “Mah kijiye,” she replied. “Ap ki kitni behin hain?”

  Gandy frowned, staring at her.

  And Kornukope used his momentary advantage. Jumping to one side he yelled, “Shoot!” before rolling away. Eastachia ducked as the policeman took out his pistol, but Gandy also leaped aside, then pointed his Derringer at Kornukope and fired. Kornukope screamed. Lay still.

  There was a second shot and Gandy screamed, to fall to the floor, blood on his chest. He writhed, tried to sit up, tried to pull out the contents of the satin satchel, but Eastachia ran forward then jumped and wrestled him to the ground, grabbing the Derringer and throwing it away. The policeman fired again. Eastachia heard the bullet hit Gandy’s chest. Screaming, she rolled away.

  Then silence, silence, apart from the distant cawing of ravens.

  Eastachia sat up and stared at Kornukope. He did not move. Lord Gorge appeared.

  At once there was a blur of motion in the garden. The policeman ran to Kornukope, rolled him over, then pulled off his jacket. “He breathes still!” he cried. “Fetch an ambulance, sir!”

  Lord Gorge took a calling dove from his frock-coat pocket and spoke into it. “Downing Street, emergency! Ambulance, what what? Ambulance
!”

  But still Kornukope did not move…

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Bedlam was bedlamitous.

  Sheremy would never have imagined, not even in his worst nightmare of the fanged and glutinous peril beneath the dungeons of the Temple of Azure Lick, that a place so awful could exist. Yet this was no place of monsters. It was a place of people, hundreds of people crammed together in cages, most of them mad, and those of them not mad about to be sent mad by the injustice of being forced to live alongside the mad. He gripped the bars at the front of the cage and screamed for justice, but the cardboard-uniformed goons outside the cage just spat at him, and laughed.

  The cell in which he had been dumped was as large as the back of a house, its walls damp and gunk-befouled redbrick, home to twenty inmates; more if you counted the rats. Sheremy counted the rats because they ate half the food. If you could call wet bread and hellmash food.

  Though most of the inmates were struck dumb or spoke in incomprehensible loon-tongue, some were able to talk, and of these, one, a dark-skinned woman, seemed the least damaged by incarceration. At the end of the evening of Sheremy’s arrival, as the goons called for silence and spread soporific smoke from censers, she approached him with a damp cloth and said, “Place this over your mouth.”

  He did not like the look of her – thin as a rake, with scraggy black hair and the pockmarked skin of one entertaining no hope. Her dark and lustrous eyes suggested an Indoo parent, but her fine nose and delicate features suggested the other might be Caucasian. Gruffly he said, “What d’you want from me?”

  “You seems a man of the gentry,” she replied.

  He glanced away. Her speech was rough accented, and he wanted no truck with even the sanest Bedlam inmate. But as the stinking smoke began to waft into the cell he took the cloth and placed it over his mouth, following her to a dark recess in the further wall. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Missus Groate,” she replied. “Of East Acton.”

  Sheremy grunted, “Hmm, really. And was your mother a darkie slave?”