by Tom Becker
“That can’t be a person! No one can run that fast!”
“I know. And have you seen how tall he is?”
PC Shaw sucked his breath in. At a rough guess, the elongated figure had to be around seven feet. The batty old woman had been right. Something was going on here that Shaw didn’t quite understand, but it was becoming increasingly clear that this case was bigger and stranger than he could ever have imagined. After all, this wasn’t the first time this week that he had seen an otherworldly creature on the streets of London. One thing was clear: he needed to find Roberts, and fast.
20
“If you don’t shut your friend up, I’m going to do it for you.”
Jonathan’s first response on seeing Carnegie was to yell with relief, but the sound died in his throat. Carnegie’s voice was low and thick, and an animal rasping noise emanated from his lungs. The private detective had mutated into the beast again. Even in the dim red light Jonathan could tell that the wereman had been in a fierce struggle. His clothes were torn to shreds, and there was a long slash running down the side of his cheek. The thick grey hair on his face was matted with blood. Only the hat perched on his head provided any link to Carnegie the human.
Beside Jonathan, Ricky was now mute with horror. Jonathan tugged his trembling shirtsleeve. “It’s all right. I know this guy. He’s a friend.”
Carnegie ran the back of his hand across his mouth and stared at the two boys. His eyes were bleary and unfocused. “What’s your name, son?”
“R – R – Ricky.”
“You look lost, boy.”
“I was kidnapped,” he said, hesitantly. “I was on a school trip and then . . . Marianne . . . and now I don’t know where I am.”
Carnegie nodded slowly. “Better off that way,” he growled.
“I’m sorry?”
“Doesn’t matter. Follow me.”
The wereman turned and headed off down the corridor. He was limping badly.
“Are you all right?” Jonathan asked him nervously.
“Fine. Never better.”
“How did you know where to find us?”
“I had a word in Skeet’s ear. I persuaded him to tell me everything.”
“What did you do to him?”
Carnegie’s face’s twisted into a snarl. “Enough questions.”
“Oh. OK. Sorry.”
They walked cautiously on through the murky passage, broken glass crunching beneath their feet. Jonathan kept a lookout for any more wild beasts, but it appeared that they had been driven by the same impulse to escape as everyone else, and nothing lurked in wait for them.
They were nearing the exit when the classical music that had heralded their entrance began booming once more, shattering the silence and making Ricky jump violently. The music was being played so loudly that every discordant screech of a violin string sent a nerve throbbing in Jonathan’s forehead.
“Show’s over!” Carnegie shouted above the racket. “Grimshaw’s opening the front door.”
“For who? Everyone’s dead!”
“We’re still here, aren’t we?”
They rounded another corner and saw the exit to the Beastilia Exotica standing wide open. To Jonathan, the Darkside night looked appealing in a way it never had before. He couldn’t stand to be in the ghastly red corridor for one second longer. Both he and Ricky began walking more quickly, overtaking Carnegie as they hurried to get outside.
They trotted out into the night-time courtyard, breathing a sigh of relief as they passed through the doors and out of the house of horrors. The braziers were burning down, and the moon was low in the sky. Ricky smiled and turned to say something to Jonathan, but then stopped and the grin faded from his face. From out of the shadows by the main gate William Grimshaw stepped forward, the torchlight dancing in his discoloured eyes. His whip was uncurled and twitched angrily in his hand like a snake.
“Leaving so soon, boys? You didn’t even get to see the show.”
Jonathan glanced nervously back to the doorway just as Carnegie hauled himself through it. When Grimshaw saw him a look of surprise crossed his face.
“Carnegie! What are you doing here?”
The wereman nodded at the boys. “Came for these two. Have you got a problem with that?”
“I have, actually. It’s cost me a great deal of time and money to get my hands on these young humans, and now it seems that people are trying to double-cross me.”
“Life’s hard. Now get out of my way.”
“Carnegie, you’re meddling in an important business transaction. What are the mongrels to you, anyway?”
“That’s my business. We’re leaving.”
“I don’t have any argument with you. Maybe we could come to some sort of . . . financial agreement?”
Carnegie had had enough. He howled and lunged at Grimshaw. Startled, the ringmaster took aim with his whip, but he was too late. The wereman caught him by the arm and ripped the weapon from his hand, hurling it across the courtyard. Then he raised a hand and struck Grimshaw across the face with a savage blow. The man crumpled beneath the force of the strike, falling to his knees. Carnegie raised his hand again.
“No!” screamed Jonathan.
The wereman turned, his face beast-like.
“Don’t do it! You’ll kill him!”
“And?”
There was a dangerous edge to his voice. Jonathan realized that he was no longer talking to a private detective, but standing between an animal and its prey. “You don’t need to kill him. Look at him!”
Grimshaw hung like a puppet from Carnegie’s grip, his eyes glazed over and his legs trailing uselessly across the ground.
“You’re a long way from home, boy. Maybe you should keep your mouth shut.”
“He’s not worth it.” Jonathan tried to keep his voice low and firm, and free from any trace of fear. “If you kill him, you’ll be no better than he is.”
Carnegie snarled and raised his hand again. “I’ll kill what and who I want. Get in my way, boy, and you’ll find that out the hard way. Bullet or no bullet.”
“That’s not you talking. I know you. You’re more than just a killer.”
Jonathan’s body was rigid with tension. Carnegie’s eyes were locked on his, and he could see the hatred simmering within them. He knew that if he looked away he was dead, so he stayed still, despite every muscle in his body screaming at him to run. They faced off against each other for a few seconds that felt like an eternity, before the wereman bellowed with fury and threw Grimshaw aside. The ringmaster was left scrabbling around on the flagstones, whimpering pathetically.
Carnegie stormed off into the night, growling and muttering furiously to himself. He lashed out at walls, street lamps, a passing alley cat; and shot murderous glances back at the boys. Jonathan and Ricky followed several paces behind him, making sure that they kept their distance. After an extremely tense few minutes the snarls began to subside, his muscles stopped straining to break free from their clothing, and his spine sank back to its dishevelled human position. Eventually he walked over to Jonathan and placed a hand on his shoulder, drawing him away from Ricky.
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m OK. My foot hurts a bit. My side hurts even more. And I lost my knife. But I’m alive.”
“That’s the spirit.” Carnegie paused. “I didn’t kill Skeet,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Just so you know. I didn’t kill him. He’s not in good shape right now, but he’s still alive.”
Jonathan stared at him. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I would have killed Grimshaw back there. I might even have killed you. You took a lot of risks for that piece of slime.”
“Perhaps. Maybe I’ve got more faith in you than you have.”
Carnegie chuckled wryly.
“Maybe you do. Come on. I’m still going to need some supper.”
21
At the other end of Darkside, the fog descended on Savage Row like a cold, dank curtain. From the drawing room of Vendetta Heights, the maidservant Raquella watched as the great elm trees and gaunt iron railings on the edge of the estate slowly disappeared from view. The milky lights from the avenue street lamps couldn’t pierce the swirling gloom, and only served to cast the scene in a ghostly hue.
Though Raquella could never say that she felt exactly safe inside Vendetta Heights, at this moment in time she was glad to be inside. The drawing room was illuminated by paraffin lamps and a blazing fire that crackled and spat in the hearth. Her master had retired to his study several hours ago, leaving her free for the moment. Vendetta had been in a strange, erratic mood for the past couple of days. He had bellowed at Raquella over her serving of his lunch, only to mournfully apologize to her afterwards. Such mood swings were unusual for him. They made her nervous, and she was glad when he left her alone.
Whatever it was that had affected her master so badly, Raquella suspected that it had something to do with Carnegie and the boy called Jonathan. Even now, she couldn’t quite explain why she had not told Vendetta that the boy was lying about his name. There was just something about Jonathan, a mixture of vulnerability and inner strength, which had made her want to help him. And now, she thought grimly to herself, you’re probably going to pay for it. If Vendetta ever finds out. . . Despite the heat in the room, Raquella shivered. She knew what happened to those who crossed her master.
It had been nearly three years since his carriage had pulled up outside her house in a poor part of Darkside called the Lower Fleet. No one in the area had ever seen such an expensive vehicle before, and grimy children ran up to touch the engraved woodwork and press their faces up against the glass. The oldest of six children, Raquella had been busy bathing her younger sister, her sleeves rolled up and soapsuds stuck to her nose. She was unaware of what was happening until her parents called her downstairs, where Vendetta stood grandly in the hallway. His blue eyes scanned the surroundings, mercilessly registering every stain and tear, every broken piece of furniture. His light, elegant features had settled into an amused sneer.
Visibly shocked by such an important visitor gracing their house, Raquella’s parents stammered out an explanation.
“Mr Vendetta here needs a new serving maid.”
“And he thinks that you should work for him!”
“Heavens to be. Isn’t that wonderful news, Raquella?”
Briskly doing up the cuffs on her sleeves, she didn’t bother to look up. “I suppose. How much does the job pay?”
Her mother gasped. “Raquella! You can’t speak to Mr Vendetta that way. I’m so sorry, sir. My eldest suffers from a quick mouth.”
The banker waved away her apologies. “It is not a problem. The girl has ambition and greed – not necessarily bad characteristics.”
Raquella returned Vendetta’s appraising stare. “I have neither. Just a lot of brothers and sisters to support.”
There was a long, cold pause.
“You know that working at the Heights poses certain . . . hazards. Serving girls with quick mouths may encounter difficulties.”
Raquella knew well enough. Rumours of death and disappearance on Savage Row filtered down to even the most run-down and crowded houses on the Lower Fleet. But her father was struggling to find work, and their meals were getting smaller and smaller. What choice did she have?
“If you are good enough to employ me, I will do everything I can to earn your favour.”
His mouth twisted into a slight smile. “Maybe we may get on, after all.”
And in a way, they did. There were still times when Raquella spoke before thinking, the fires of hatred would blaze in her master’s eyes, and her life hung in the balance. But she had survived his punishments, and her monthly pay packets enabled her to improve her family’s lot. Vendetta valued her attentive service and quick thinking enough to keep her alive, and on occasion even confided in her. Still, Raquella found it hard to be grateful that she had been ripped away from her home to serve this cold, merciless killer. Maybe that was why she had helped Jonathan. Maybe it had nothing to do with him or Carnegie. Maybe she just wanted to punish Vendetta.
In the hearth a cinder popped loudly, making Raquella jump. She had been daydreaming for too long. There was still the silver to polish before tea could be served. She was about to move away from the window, but a noise from outside made her turn back. A carriage came careering out of the fog, the horse foaming at the mouth as it galloped at full flight up the driveway. As the carriage reached Vendetta Heights the driver suddenly hauled back on the reins, bringing the carriage to a juddering halt. The horse whinnied in protest and stamped its feet, steam rising from its body. The driver got down awkwardly from the carriage. They were swathed in a long dark cloak, and hobbling badly. With great difficulty they ascended the steps to the front of the house and banged loudly on the door.
With her heart beating a little more quickly, Raquella walked briskly round to the front door and pulled it open. She had learnt long ago with Vendetta’s visitors that appearing confident was crucial, no matter how she felt on the inside. If they sensed that you were scared of them, you were in real trouble.
“Yes?” she said to the cloaked figure, a hint of imperiousness in her voice.
“I need to see Vendetta,” the figure whispered.
“I’m afraid my master is indisposed at present. Perhaps I can take a message?”
The figure wearily pulled down its hood. Raquella started. It was Marianne. Her face was covered in cuts and gashes, and there were streaks of blood across her cheek.
“I haven’t got time for this, Raquella,” she said. “I have to see him now. It’s urgent. Believe me, he’ll want to see me.”
Raquella opened the door wider and ushered the bounty hunter inside. She was taking a risk disturbing Vendetta, she knew, but Marianne’s reason for visiting must be important if she was out in this condition. She gestured that Marianne should wait in the hallway, before heading over to the study.
Vendetta was asleep in one of the great armchairs, his face paler than usual. He jerked awake when Raquella timidly approached him, and gave her a baleful stare. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but Marianne is here. She says it’s vital that she speaks to you.”
Vendetta shifted in his chair with interest. “Well, well, well. You’d better send her in, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
Raquella curtsied and hurried back out into the hallway, where Marianne was waiting impatiently. “About time,” she muttered, nearly pushing past the serving maid as she was led to the study.
With Marianne inside the room, the house settled back into silence. Raquella stood still for a second, thinking furiously. Then she raced for the back staircase that the servants used. Lifting her skirt up away from her ankles, she took the stairs two at a time, coming out on the third floor. Here most of the rooms were disused, and Raquella trod cautiously through the dark, her feet padding on the soft carpet. Pieces of furniture were muffled beneath thick sheets to protect them from dust, creating an eerie army of strangely-shaped white objects.
In the last room a heavy door was set into the far wall. Retrieving a set of keys from her pocket, Raquella flicked through them looking for the right one. She noticed that her hands were shaking ever so slightly, and she sternly told herself not to be so silly. Then the correct key was in her hand, the door was open, and she had eased silently through into the room beyond.
Raquella knew this wooden balcony looked down into Vendetta’s study. From this height, the room was even more impressive. Bookshelves filled every wall, stretching up to the ceiling until only the tallest ladders could reach them. On her hands and knees, Raquella crept forward to the edge
of the balcony and peered through the wooden slats. Vendetta was standing in front of the fire, his arms folded behind his back, his shadow flung across the entire length of the room. Marianne was sat in one of the armchairs, her face etched with exhaustion. For a time none of them spoke, until Vendetta’s calm, mocking voice cut in.
“Rough day?” he asked innocently.
Marianne shook her head. “Had an argument with a pool full of barracuda. All hell broke loose at the Beastilia. Skeet has disappeared. I nearly lost Humble. He’s being attended to now, but I don’t know if he’s going to pull through.”
“My commiserations. What happened?”
“It was the boy. The Starling boy.”
Raquella gasped quietly. By the fire, Vendetta started at the mention of the name. “You know where he is?”
“I know where he was. We had managed to take him to Grimshaw, but somehow he escaped. He took the other boy with him.”
Vendetta smiled thinly, and wandered over to the drinks cabinet. He poured himself a measure of thick dark liquid from a crystal decanter and took a deep swig. A hint of colour returned to his cheeks. “I would very much like to get my hands on that boy.”
“Well,” Marianne continued, “you could just ask Carnegie.”
He whirled round. “What?”
“Carnegie. The detective. He’s been protecting the boy since he crossed to Darkside. Didn’t you know?”
Vendetta placed his glass down on the cabinet, his hands shaking with silent fury. “No. I didn’t know that,” he replied, in a voice that was awful in its stillness. The shadows lengthened in the room. “If you’ve held on to this information, you must have a reason.” Vendetta leaned towards Marianne. “Why are you telling me this now?”
Marianne shrugged. “I need Skeet to track the boy. I need Humble’s help to catch him. I don’t have either of them right now. That boy has hurt two of my associates, and put me out of business – for now. So I thought I’d come and tell you all about it. And also, to give you something I found in the Beastilia.”
