by Oxley, Peter
“So much for the police,” I said as we sat in our swaying and jangling carriage. “I suppose the question is what we do when we next encounter Andras. It is presumably an inevitability that we shall.”
“Yes,” said N’yotsu slowly. “It would appear that my pursuit of the demon is no longer one-sided, if ever it was; a creature like that would no doubt take great pleasure in the hunter becoming the hunted. At least we know some more about our adversary—the creature is not fully corporeal, and can only act through agents.”
“So it can’t hurt us, but we can hurt it,” said Kate, nodding at the pistols.
“The pistol seemed to have some form of effect, although whether it actually harmed the demon is yet to be seen,” said Maxwell. “Unfortunately, Andras has proven that it does not need to directly impose physical force to cause us harm. And I have no doubt that it has other nefarious means at its disposal.”
“And there’s that Legion it commands as well,” I said. “Could that refer to the clockwork men?”
“Possibly,” said N’yotsu. “But we should work on the assumption that there is worse to come. We need to find more ways to swing the balance in our favour.” He turned to Maxwell. “I look to you, my friend, and your genius with inventions. We should refine the idea behind the pistols and potentially find other ways, maybe to banish the demon from the Earth.”
“Into the Aether?” asked Maxwell.
“Or, even better, beyond it,” said N’yotsu. “If such a place exists.”
“Interesting,” said Maxwell, his face lighting up with the thought of the intellectual challenge stretching out before him.
PART SIX - BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR
CHAPTER 23
I sat at my usual table in my usual tavern, taking another long swig of my usual drink. I put the mug back on the table, looked around and then sighed; I had hoped that that would have been the drink to despatch me to blessed oblivion. No such luck.
I had returned from our break in the country with my nerves even more shredded than before we left. Andras occupied a large proportion of my mind, although the creature did have plenty of company in there. My crushing black depression was accompanied by dollops of self-loathing and garnished with a large helping of self-pity.
Whilst our occasional brushes with the demon and its agents were admittedly invigorating at the time, the constant looming threat of its reappearance had the opposite effect on my ongoing state of mind, thrusting me into a vortex of introspection and dread as I contemplated the worst from the next engagement. This in turn caused me to mull over the chances of my demise and as a result consider the impact I had had on the world and the legacy I would leave behind me. Such considerations I found to be severely wanting, especially when my meagre achievements were laid down next to the shining light which was Maxwell: my dear, genius brother.
Time and again, my thoughts wandered back to what had been said to me over the Sound Conduit by the creature purporting to be my deceased mother. Whether it actually had been her was now an irrelevance; the words had struck a chord, exposing long-buried fears and the knowledge that I truly was a disappointment. What had I actually done with my life? What had I achieved with my talents and skills? Nothing. Those black thoughts drove me to yet more drink in pursuit of brief moments of blessed release when all thoughts stopped, moments which deep down I knew just added to a downward spiral which took me past mediocrity and toward inconsequence.
Matters were made even worse by the relatively new realisation that there was much more to this world than I had previously thought; indeed, much more than most right-minded people would even suspect. I missed the days when demons, ghosts and homicidal scientists were matters of fiction, entertaining diversions or superstitions for me to scoff at. My recent adventures with N’yotsu had exposed me to so much more than should really be credible, to the extent that I was not only jumping at every shadow I passed, but also seriously doubting my own sanity.
I took another swig of beer and was surprised to see a man sitting on the other side of the table, watching me with a smile on his face.
I eyed him suspiciously. He was dressed extremely fashionably, far too immaculately for the tavern in which we sat. An incredibly expensive hat sat on the table in front of him, raising in me a sudden pang of fear for our safety. Experience had taught me that the deliberate flaunting of wealth in the East End would often end up with the bearer being deprived of that wealth, often in a rather fatal manner.
I looked around but no one seemed to be paying my companion or me the slightest bit of attention, and before I could reflect on this the man spoke.
“Hello, friend,” he said.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
“Yes and no. I noticed you sitting here on your own and thought that you could do with some cheering up. And I believe I have something which could do just that.”
I regarded the man, noting his over-keen presentation and the fact that he was sitting in a tavern without a drink, and then shook my head. Most salesmen knew not to bother me, but this one clearly was new to the area. “No, thank you,” I said. “I am not interested.”
“I think you might be,” he said with a grin as he leaned toward me. “I know that you come here to get release from your troubles.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Along with everyone else here. You will have to do better than that.”
“You have had a troubled time over the past few months. Your experiences weigh heavily on you.”
“Are you a salesman, or a clairvoyant?” I asked wearily. “Presumably you’re now going to tell me you can speak to my dead relatives. In point of fact, if you can, could you ask them if there’s any money buried anywhere? I am running a bit low in funds.”
“You would be well advised to not be so flippant. You of all people should know that no good comes of communicating with the dead.”
My mug froze as it touched my lips. “What do you mean?” I asked slowly.
“I can offer you a release which is grounded in reality. A release which will give you everything you have ever dreamt of.”
I wanted to dismiss this strange man, but there was something about his manner and his words which kept me rooted to the spot, listening.
“I can help you achieve your wildest dreams,” the man continued. “You would be a failure no more. Instead, you would be feted throughout the land and held up as a beacon of success.”
“I have no money,” I said. “So I am afraid that you are wasting your time. Good day, sir.”
“I have no need of money. Your pleasure is ample reward for me. That, and something else which you could give me. Something which costs no money at all.”
“And what would that be?” I asked.
*
I awoke in my bed feeling strangely relaxed and free of the deleterious effects of too much drink; in point of fact, I felt fresher than I had for years. I sat up and ran my fingers through my hair, thinking back to the night before. The fact that I felt so good was a blessed miracle given how much I had drunk the night before. I vaguely remembered speaking to the salesman, although could not remember how the conversation had ended or how I managed to get rid of the pest. Beyond that point my memory failed me completely; I had clearly succeeded in my efforts to drink myself to insensibility.
A brisk knock at the front door pulled me out of my thoughts. I frowned and looked at the clock; all of my friends and acquaintances—the few which remained now that I had no money—knew better than to disturb me before noon. The visitor knocked again. My light mood now forgotten, I stormed down the stairs and wrenched open the door. “Yes?” I snapped.
If the man on the doorstep was in any way shocked at my unkempt and aggressive appearance, he hid it well. “Are you Mr. Augustus Potts?” he asked.
“I am,” I said. “Who wants to know?”
He handed over a piece of paper. “My name is Andrews. Bruce Andrews. I represent the publishers Bradbury and Evans and I have come with an offer
of a commission for you. Would you mind if we spoke inside?”
I looked at the paper which he had handed to me. It certainly looked official, printed on the headed note paper with which I was intimately familiar, having been the recipient of plenty of rejection letters from that august house. It was a letter of introduction, signed by the owner and proprietor, and authorising Mr. Andrews to negotiate with me.
I stepped aside and gestured for him to enter, shutting the door behind him as my mind slowly trotted into action; I was finally face-to-face with a person of influence within the publishing industry. Even more importantly, that person had willingly come to see me. I therefore had to create the right impression.
“Please wait here,” I said and stepped into the sitting room as casually as I could, shutting the door behind me.
The room was a testament to my status as a lonely—and servant-less—bachelor. I quickly gathered together the discarded spirit bottles and glasses and hid them behind the chairs. The result of this impromptu spring clean was unconvincing, but at least the room no longer resembled a complete slum.
I ushered Mr. Andrews into the sitting room and then rushed upstairs, splashing my face with ice-cold water and pulling on some trousers and a jacket in an attempt to appear at least slightly respectable. The result was passable and as I made my way back downstairs I tried to adopt the air of a slightly eccentric, but nevertheless dependable, professional.
I sat down opposite Mr. Andrews. “So how can I help you, sir?” I asked.
“As you will be aware,” he said. “My employers used to publish the journal Household Words, formerly edited by a gentleman by the name of Charles Dickens.”
“Yes, I was a big fan.”
“Many people were, until Mr. Dickens successfully sued us and forced us to close the journal so that we were no longer competing with his new publication.”
“Yes, All the Year Round,” I said. “A fine read.” The man bristled and I corrected myself. “I have of course read better, though. Many of your own publications, for instance...”
He held up a hand. “You do not need to apologise. Mr. Dickens is a very good editor as well as writer. It is because of that fact that our fortunes have suffered since his defection. And that is also why we are looking for a replacement.” He nodded at me.
I blinked. “I am sorry?”
“I am here to make you an offer. We would like you to set up a new publication for us. It would be in competition with All the Year Round, but with you on board we strongly believe it could be the beating of Mr. Dickens.”
“I...”
I have never been one for commercial discussions, nor indeed was I accustomed to good news when it came to my chosen profession. This turn of events was more than my already addled brain could cope with.
Mr. Andrews mistook my hesitation for the reticence of an astute negotiator. “I am willing to offer an extremely competitive salary.” He handed me a piece of paper, on which was written an amount in pounds, shillings and pence. Mainly pounds. Lots of them. Everything swam in and out of focus and I frowned as I tried to make sense of what was in front of me.
Mr. Andrews sighed good-naturedly. “I see you are as astute as I was led to believe,” he said. “Very well. In addition to this, I am authorised to offer you a 49% shareholding in the new venture. I am sure you will agree that that is a very generous offer.”
“Yes... very generous,” I said.
“So, do you accept?”
I nodded, and before I could say anything further he was pulling me to my feet and shaking my hand vigorously. “That is fantastic news,” he said. “I should like to take you to our offices to sign the contract. When would be convenient for you? Is there any way that you would be able to free some time today?”
I made a pretence of pondering a busy schedule. “I am sure I can cancel a few appointments,” I said. “No time like the present and all that.”
“Capital! When we are done I can show you your new offices and then we will treat you to a celebratory lunch.”
“My new offices?”
“We have taken the liberty of setting aside some premises in Mayfair,” he said. “There is provision for living accommodation there also, which you are free to avail yourself of, should you wish.” He looked around us at my meagre lodgings. “Although we would of course understand if you would like to keep a physical distance between your work and home life.”
“No, no. I am always keen to put as few barriers between myself and my work...”
*
The next few weeks leading up to the publication of the very first issue of Life’s Uncertain Voyage were a blur. I had adopted the title in homage to Mr. Dickens and his tendency to use Shakespearean quotes for the titles of his own journals, although my new employers and business partners chose to see this as a cunning dig at their former star editor and writer. So long as they paid me, I was happy to let them believe whatever they wished. And they did pay me—handsomely and in advance.
I resolved from the outset to learn from the lessons of my old spendthrift ways and exercise more caution in the use of my newfound wealth. In any event, my duties as editor and proprietor meant that I struggled to find time to spend even a penny of my income. Not only was my work happily all-consuming, but when I did get a chance to socialise I was inundated with people wishing to pay for me. These included not only the wealthy upper middle classes whose spheres I had suddenly been catapulted into, but also a large number of writers, illustrators and campaigners who took every opportunity to curry favour with me in the hope of gaining space within my journal.
Unlike Dickens, I decided to adopt an altruistic stance toward my contributors and allowed them to be credited for their work within my journal. I had always considered it to be bizarre that a man of Dickens’ fame and fortune was loath to allow his writers to be named within his publications. In any case, my own recent struggles as an aspiring writer were still all too vivid and this was my opportunity to redress the balance in some small way.
A few weeks later I found myself standing in the Reform Club, a glass of fine wine in my hand while I listened to the great and good lavish praise on the first volume of Life’s Uncertain Voyage. Lesser men might have found it uncomfortable to be the focus of so much sycophantic—and in some cases clearly insincere—attention. I, however, quite rightly saw it as simply my due for all of those years spent paying my dues and struggling as an inconsequential and unsuccessful writer.
The lawyer, Mr. Andrews, appeared at my side and pulled me away from my current suitors. “There is someone you have to meet,” he said, leading me over to a group of elderly gentlemen. “Mr. Potts, I should like to introduce you to Earl Russell.”
I shook the man’s hand. “Prime Minister,” I said. “I am honoured.”
“Not at all,” he said. “I am pleased that you chose to launch your publication in our humble Club.” He waved a copy at me. “And I have to say that it is a fine read, at least the elements which I have read so far. You have an admirable eye for the struggles of the common man.”
“Indeed,” I smiled, raising my glass in a toast. “As a common man myself, I am all too aware of our struggles.”
This prompted polite laughter from the group around us. Earl Russell took my arm. “I should like to invite you to my office at some point. There are a number of... initiatives which you would be able to assist us with. In return, I can promise you patronage and influence.”
I smiled. “I should be honoured, Prime Minister.”
*
The days and weeks became a blur of activity, the daytime filled with meetings while the nights were devoted to writing and editing. Late one evening I was heading back to my office when I saw a familiar figure walking the streets. I told the driver to stop and leant out of my carriage’s window to call: “Kate!”
She stopped, her frown turning to surprise and an almost grudging smile. “Gus, is that you? Well look at you in your fancy carriage an’ all.”
/> I grinned. “Could I offer you a lift?”
She hesitated, but the weight of the supplies she was carrying overrode whatever objections might have been running through her mind. She passed me her burdens and then climbed in to sit opposite me. “Bedford Square,” I called up to the driver and then sat back and smiled at Kate.
“So you’re clearly doing all right for yourself,” she said.
“My little journal is selling well,” I said. “Have you read it?”
“Don’t have too much time for stuff like reading,” she said and I blushed; I had a horrible feeling that she did not have her letters.
“Nevertheless,” I said quickly. “I am doing fairly well. My publishers seem pleased, and I have been getting some reasonably good reviews.” This was a lie; the reviews were uniformly glowing.
“Well, I’m pleased for you,” she said. “We all deserve a break.”
“How about you? How are things in the madhouse?”
She smiled. “The same as ever. N’yotsu and your brother are still up to their old tricks, although thankfully still no sign of Andras. Not that that matters; every day is a battle to stop them blowing up the house with some experiment or other.”
“I do not know what they would do without you.”
“I have a few ideas,” she said. “None of them good. Listen, why don’t you come in? You’ve not been over in ages, and I’m sure they’d love to see you.”
“I have invited them to plenty of functions,” I said. “It is not as though they have been lacking opportunities to see me.”
