Necessary Monsters

by Richard A. Kirk

  "I will help you do it," said Irridis. His voice was flat. "Lamb is a trained assassin and he won't come alone. It won't be easy."

  "He will underestimate me," Moss said. "That is his blind spot. Tomorrow night I'll leave here and move to the shipwright's house." He emptied his drink into the broken skeleton, where it ran like blood.

  The ocelli orbited Irridis's head, color shifting through the visible spectrum. As each one passed behind, Irridis was imbued with an amber glow not unlike the spilled brandy. "It's settled," Irridis said.

  "Fine, I'll talk to Oliver in the morning."

  "Good," said Irridis. He aligned the drawing with the table edge. "I'm going out. You should check on Imogene. She was barely conscious yesterday when I spoke to her." Moss had been surprised, on waking after his ordeal in the alley, to learn that Imogene had fallen ill.

  "I'll look in."

  "And clean this mess up before Morel sees it." Irridis winked.

  His heart heavy with the prospect of what lay ahead, however necessary, Moss wandered through the apartment, distractedly examining various pieces of bric-a-brac and pulling books from shelves. He found and lit a poisonous-looking green cigar. It proved foul, and he stubbed it out in the kitchen sink a few minutes later. He picked up the drawing that Gale had examined and carried it back to the room where Imogene lay asleep.

  Seaforth's bedroom had the same high ceilings as the living room and the library but it was smaller and more intimate. A chandelier in the form of a jellyfish cast spots of light across burgundy walls and dark wainscoting. A small fire ebbed behind a decorative grate, and the remains of a meal sat on the mantel, reflected in a slab of gilded mirror. A space between the voluminous taffeta drapes offered a peek at the city behind the building. Moss pressed his forehead to the window's cool glass. Realizing that he could be observed, he pulled the drapes shut.

  Imogene lay not in Seaforth's bed but on a comfortable couch. As he pulled a blanket over her shoulders, his hand brushed her cheek. She had developed a fever. With skin so pale, she might have been non-human like Irridis. Although the fine wrinkles around her mouth and eyes argued otherwise.

  "Everything's changed," he said. Her eyes moved behind their lids and her chest rose and fell in a gentle rhythm beneath the blanket. He placed the drawing in the traveling bookcase with the others. As his hand lingered over the case preparing to close it, he thought about looking through some of the books. Who knew what lay within those bindings? He imagined a movement in one of the bottles and decided it would be an exploration best left for daylight. He wished that he had a vial of sinispore to clear his head. But he did not. So he eased into an armchair and passed the time watching Imogene, until he too drifted toward sleep. His eyes popped open as his subconscious tossed up something he had noticed in the heat of his discussion with Irridis. Six ocelli?

  THE ALLEY OF BIRDS

  The next morning Moss woke feeling purposeful. He bathed, and examined himself before a mirror framed in cherubim. His face had been spared the worst of the abuse that the rest of his body had endured. Red nicks on his eyebrow, and some marks on his cheeks were the only visible evidence of his beating. He dressed in clothes from Habich Seaforth's ample wardrobe, a white shirt, a slate-grey tie and creased pants. Over this outfit, he donned a black suit jacket and an overcoat. He trimmed his beard as an afterthought and polished his glasses. When his transformation into Joseph Woods was complete, he looked in on Imogene, who was still asleep. He closed the bedroom door so that his departure would not wake her. He did not intend to be gone long. He would set the bait and return.

  Moments later he stepped from the apartment house into the cacophony of mid-morning. The street in front of Seaforth's building was just wide enough to support two streetcar tracks and a pedestrian walkway. A similar three-story row house with a limestone façade stood opposite. Both ends of the street were brightly lit and busy. Turning right, he set off at a brisk pace, noting the dramatic transition from summer to autumn that had occurred over the previous week. The air was cool, scented with coal smoke and the sea. Plants in the urns on the sidewalk were overgrown and yellowing. It was a peaceful morning.

  He thought back to his mental state in the alley. He reasoned that it had been some kind of seizure, triggered by the sinispore withdrawal or the culmination of stress. The signs had been with him for days. He had not acknowledged them and paid a price for his carelessness. All of the dream fragments and visions could be explained thus. What could not be dismissed was the question of his savior's identity. Who had rescued him in the taxi? To whom did he owe his gratitude? It was not Irridis. Irridis had cleaned him up and put him to bed, but another had delivered him home to Seaforth's lobby, where Irridis had found him.

  He walked toward the sunlight, where Devonian Lane intersected with Sperricorn Avenue. He passed several shops, including a boarded-up art gallery and a tobacconist. On the avenue he pushed into a crowded streetcar that had just rumbled to a stop. Moss was forced to stand in the aisle as the streetcar lurched and sparked toward the market district. It was all he could do to keep his balance. After several blocks he realized that he had not checked for police agents before leaving the building. It had been his practice since he started working for Seaforth. He took this as a warning that his sense of purpose was overtaking his caution and resolved to take his time, and be more attentive to his surroundings.

  The columns and blackened statuary of the Opera House slid past, followed by the Maritime Museum and the Art Gallery. The previous night's rain lay in puddles on the pavement but the sky was now clear. Moss stepped off the streetcar near the Memorial Gardens within sight of the market. As it trundled on with a clanging of bells, he stopped to look at the Cloth Hall, an imposing architectural landmark. It was not yet his destination. Turning away, he traveled west to an old street behind the Art Gallery, dodging trucks, dray carts and steaming piles of horse manure. He was going to Bird Alley.

  Bird Alley was a slime-covered stretch of cobblestones between the gallery warehouse and the armory. Laundry lines had been strung between the walls so that visitors could hang birdcages. They swung in constant motion, housing a bewildering variety of birds that showered feathers and seed husks into the air. Entering the alley, Moss ducked to avoid a collision with a crowded line of cages. The fluttering occupants filled his ears with pretty songs and less pretty squawks as he navigated between the tables where old men gathered to trade birds, stories and chess strategy. He circled around a stall that served bitter coffee from a samovar. The smoke of lamb skewers and chestnuts thick on the air reminded him that he had not eaten. It would have to wait; he had spotted the person he had come to see.

  Oliver Taxali sat at his usual spot. A cage of sticks sat on a table in front of him. A small green parrot with a red beak stuck its head through the rungs and took a sunflower seed from his teeth. Croaker, also at the table, watched the performance with mild interest.

  "This bird has a softer touch than the girl I spent last night with," said Oliver. The clerk snickered. He sat across from Oliver, in a black suit and a white hat, pouring red wine into a dirty coffee cup. Oliver sat with one leg crossed over the other, dressed in striped pants and a white shirt. He also wore a hat, charcoal grey with an emerald feather tip set into the band. Between them, Andrew leaned back on a chair avoiding Moss's eyes by thumbing through a dog-eared stack of boy's adventure comics. Oliver continued to attend to the parrot as Moss came toward the table. He knew Oliver would not be alone but Andrew's presence was a shock.

  "Oh, you again," said the clerk. "How dreary. There's no peace, is there? Are you bringing me the atlas, Mr. Woods, Moss, whoever you are today?" The clerk hid a laugh in his handkerchief. He was drunk. Moss shook his head.

  "Ah." Oliver spoke around the sunflower seed pressed between his lips. "It's the teacher." He gestured to the boy. "Andrew, run and fetch Mr. Mossy-Woods a cup of coffee."

  "Good morning, Oliver," said Moss. "I didn't know you knew Andrew."

/>   Oliver laughed. "I have many Andrews, Moss. Sit down. You obviously know Croaker?" Moss nodded at Croaker who was licking at spilled wine on the back of his thumb. Oliver served the bird another seed, this time with yellow-stained fingers. Croaker swallowed his wine in a gulp and looked at Moss with an inscrutable expression.

  "Yes. How are you today, Oliver?" asked Moss.

  "As ever. Pissed. Things haven't been so well. I invested heavily in a ship and last night I learned that the twat of a captain has run it up against a sandbar in the southern sea. Everything, glub, glub, at the bottom." He made a horizontal settling motion with a ring-heavy hand. The parrot cocked its head.

  "Pity the fool of a captain when he returns," chuckled Croaker, showing his wine-stained teeth. Andrew returned with a tiny cup of something that looked like steaming sepia ink. Moss gave him three hexagonal coins as Oliver continued. "Enough of my sad story. What brings you to the alley? Didn't have enough yesterday? Are you here to buy a bird? Maybe listen to some old men talk shit? Have any more strange women showed up at your door?"

  "I have something private I need to discuss." Moss had decided to act on a hunch.

  "Croaker, Andrew, plug your ears," said Oliver.

  "What do you know about a drawing that was stolen from the woman who gave you the book? I'd like to get it back." Moss darted a look at Croaker.

  "Stolen?" Oliver made a face as though he had just put something sour in his mouth. "A rather strong word. Where was it, ah, stolen from?"

  "I think you know."

  "The Cloth Hall," Croaker supplied. "I know it well." He scratched his balls through his suit. Oliver cracked a sunflower seed and ate it, spitting the shell at the clerk. "Croaker, you should be more discreet." He looked at Moss. "And she should be more careful." Moss sipped the coffee and shuddered. Oliver laughed, causing the bird to flutter against its cage. "Come, man, it's only coffee." He shook his head, the smile leaving his face. "Your query is uninteresting, accompanied as it is by empty hands." He sighed.

  "I haven't come with empty hands." Moss reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out The Songbirds of Nightjar Island. He laid out one of Seaforth's silk handkerchiefs and set the book on it. Croaker's eyes betrayed a flicker of interest, a movement that did not go unnoticed by Oliver.

  "It's of greater value than the drawing," said Moss.

  "I'm sure," snorted Oliver.

  "Songbirds of Nightjar Island," Croaker said, as he snatched the book up with unconcealed relish. He opened the cover to the title page. "Rare."

  "Careful with it, you fool," said Moss. "It's the author's personal copy."

  "Pfff." Oliver waved his hand as if shooing a fly. "It could be a facsimile."

  "It isn't," said Moss.

  "He's right," said Croaker, cooing over the volume.

  Oliver took a hand full of seeds and let them fall from one palm to the other. The air separated the husks. "How can you be sure?"

  "Because, Oliver," Moss lied, "I met someone with great interest in the book and he confirmed its value. He was desperate for it. I thought you might want to see it first." Moss glared at Croaker who was holding the book in one hand as he reached for his wine with another.

  "It's true," said Croaker ruefully.

  Oliver fed the parrot another seed. Croaker slid the book across the table at Moss. Moss picked it up and held the book out to Oliver.

  "You can see the authenticity by the marginalia." Moss slipped his finger into the book and opened it to a spot where he had written I am bringing Memoria to the attic of the Cloth Hall tomorrow at midnight. He angled the book so that only Oliver could see it. The man gave no indication that he had. Instead he picked up a tiny cup and sipped. "If I am able to produce the drawing you'll bring the book back to me as a trade. Agreed?"

  "Yes," said Moss. He looked at his childhood friend's hooded eyes. When had the boy that he had knocked around with for long summer days become this frightening, cold man?

  "Hey," said Croaker, "let me see that." Moss returned the book to his coat.

  "Screw off, Croaker," said Moss.

  "Write down the name of the book and its particulars," said Oliver. He produced a small notebook. "No offense, but I'd like to make an independent assessment of its value. I'll make inquiries about the drawing, see if anyone knows anything." Moss did as he was instructed, noticing the names of desperate souls that had come to Oliver for help. Croaker hissed petulantly through his nose.

  "Very good. Now, is there anything else you would like?" A small brown vial with a tiny cork had materialized on the table. Moss's pulse quickened. He looked around the alley with its forms, huddled over tiny cups. Over their heads hundreds of birds fluttered like an oneiric manifestation of their thoughts. A thumping sound seemed to rise from somewhere deep underground, but it was only his heart. A welter of images from the previous day came at him and for a moment he thought he detected the presence of the seam of white light.

  "No thanks." He stood up and smoothed his borrowed clothes. "Best not." The vial vanished beneath Oliver's palm, like an object in a trick of misdirection.

  "Goodbye then, Lumsden," said Oliver, smirking. "We'll be in touch with you soon."

  Moss left the alley shaken, but pleased. The unexpected presence of Andrew had rattled him from the start, but it was the appearance of the sinispore that had set his hands trembling. Moss had gone to the Alley of Birds knowing that anything like the stolen drawing would find its way to Oliver. There had been an even chance that Oliver would choose the drawing over the book. Moss had gambled and won. When the moment came he would take the drawing at gunpoint if necessary. It was an act that would have been inconceivable even a year ago. It would be something if he could return it to Irridis.

  In the lane behind the Art Gallery he stopped at a loading dock and leaned on a pile of straw to roll a cigarette. His skin felt clammy and the beginnings of a headache throbbed in his temples, triggered by the acidic coffee.

  "Are you all right, sir?" The voice was stentorian. Moss looked up to see a mounted police officer blotting out the sky. The officer was dressed in black, high boots, an immaculate greatcoat and a peaked cap. A gun hung off the man's wide belt. Moss could smell its oil from where he stood and it did not help the churning in his gut.

  "Just a little too much to drink last night." The horse shuffled back a few steps. The sun blinded Moss.

  "I understand, sir, but you cannot stay here. This is no place for a member of the public. Only the gallery staff members are permitted."

  "Sorry, I'll be on my way then. Goodbye." Moss walked around the horse, which had chosen that moment to become as immobile as a bronze war memorial.

  "A moment, sir."

  Moss turned. "Yes?" A truncheon moved towards him and brushed his shoulder.

  "A feather, sir."

  "Thank you, officer." Moss felt like he might puke as the horse and rider moved away like a single, well-lubricated machine.

  THE SCRATCH

  "Don't take your coat off. You have to leave." Irridis dropped the lid of Moss's steamer trunk as Moss walked through the apartment door.

  "What's going on?" asked Moss. His hand fell from his coat button. The apartment was in disarray. Clothes were strewn over the backs of furniture, dirty breakfast dishes sat on expensive wood surfaces. The curtains had been pulled back as far as possible to let the daylight in. Having made his decision to leave, knowing that his time there was at an end, Moss had grown impatient and less fastidious about the finer domestic details. More than ever, he saw the place for the grotesque museum to its owner's vanity that it was. Every surface was a curated still life that crowed, look at what I have, look at me. Moss felt no envy, and took satisfaction at the pile of shattered red glass swept against a baseboard. He cared nothing for an orchestrated exit. Let Seaforth know a convict had pissed in his treasure box.

  "Morel came knocking for about the tenth time since I arrived back," said Irridis. "He was rattling his key ring and I thought he was go
ing to let himself in. So I talked to him through the door, pretending to be you, using the convenient excuse that I was dressing. He told me that he had received a call from Seaforth's secretary this morning."

  "Damn," said Moss, anticipating the worst. "He's back?"

  "Not yet, but he's on the way. Apparently he asked after you. He wanted to know if you were still here. Not if you'd be here, but if you were still here. Morel could hardly contain his excitement."

  "Someone's tipped him off." Moss's first thought was that Gale had alerted Seaforth, but it did not sit right. Gale would have more to gain playing a slow game. Lamb? The approach seemed too indirect.

  "Then he might be on his way with the police," said Irridis.

  Moss shook his head. "I don't think so. If he's suspicious, he'll want to deal with me personally. I imagine there are things in here that he wouldn't want prying eyes to see."

  "Maybe. The secretary asked Morel to make sure that you will be here when Seaforth arrives."

  "Okay, let's go. We can be long gone before he gets home."

  Irridis pulled his hood over his head. "I ordered a cab. It's waiting in the yard at the back. I'll tell the driver to radio for another car, for you, and have it sent to the front door. I'm leaving now." He handed Moss a piece of paper. "Go to the shipwright's house. I'll see you tomorrow night at the Cloth Hall at 10 p.m."

  "Wait, Imogene?"

  "In the other room," Irridis said. "Waiting. I haven't filled her in, but she must suspect something is up."

  Moss considered his friend, the person who had shown him more humanity than any human being ever had, even in his criticism. Irridis had been true, and even now stuck by him at enormous risk. He looked as alien and formidable as anything Moss could imagine, dressed head to toe in black, the lethal ocelli tumbling around him. He had waited for Moss to return and even packed his trunk, despite approaching danger. Turning on his heel, Moss started for the bedroom.