by G. P. Taylor
‘Climb quickly,’ Charity said as he forged ahead. ‘Now that Grimm and Grendel are out of the way we are free to attack the Prince Regent. You up to it lad?’ he asked as he pushed slowly on the metal grate that covered the entrance to the sewer.
‘If the Kraken isn’t killing the people, who is?’ Mariah asked as Charity peered through a narrow slit between the cobbles and the grate.
‘That remains to be found out,’ Charity whispered. ‘The streets will never be safe until they are stopped.’
‘The Kraken said that he saw a man with a cane with a silver tip, that every time someone was killed the man would appear.’
‘Krakens say many things. Once saw a Kraken pull a four-mast ship to the bottom of the Indian Ocean. Came at her like a mad dog and dragged her into the depths.’ Charity stopped and looked at Mariah, who clung to the blistering metal with white, bloodless fingers. ‘Look beyond that which you can see, understand that there is a veil cast upon your eyes, find the pearl of great price and you’ll have all you need to live.’
‘That’s what Felix said,’ Mariah blurted out as Charity pushed against the grate and let in the cool of the night. It brought with it the smell of the sea, tainted with the sweet flavour of fried fish.
‘Good to be home,’ Charity said, licking his lips, and he pushed the grate from its collar and pulled himself into the narrow passageway of the Bolts.
They slipped quietly along the narrow passage and through the front door of the Golden Kipper. The streets were empty; the steam-mist from the beach hugged the sand and the cobbled road that led along the quayside. Mariah stayed a pace behind the Captain; he was concerned as to how Charity knew so much about his life. He had seen the Captain look sideways at him on several occasions during the afternoon’s conversation. It was as if he weighed him up, checked him out. The Captain must have heard much about him from someone before, and he was looking to see if it were true – that was the thought that Mariah couldn’t get out of his head as they climbed the stairs. But the only other person who knew Mariah’s name was Professor Bilton, and how could he have ever told Captain Charity? Mariah wrangled with his thoughts as he slowly climbed the stairs.
‘Smutch,’ Charity called as he turned the landing.
Smutch was still in the window seat overlooking the harbour but his hands were tied with several knotted cotton napkins stolen from the table places. Around his head was a tight gag that forced his teeth to stick out like an old horse.
‘Who did this? Where’s Sacha?’ Charity insisted.
Mariah covered his face with his hand. The sight of the old man trussed up and gagged made him look even more ludicrous. Hanging against the wall from the antler of an elk was Smutch’s wooden stump. Mariah instantly knew this was Sacha’s doing.
‘Only playing a game …’ Smutch muttered as he sucked in his teeth and pulled his lips back from their mordant grin. ‘She’ll be back soon. Tied me up, took off me leg and gagged me gob. Said she would go away and then come back and I had to guess who she was …’ In a momentary flash of lucidity he realised he had been fooled. ‘Knew I shouldn’t Captain, but she had such a smile and the voice of an angel and –’
‘Enough, Smutch. How long has she been gone?’ Charity asked as he fished the wooden stump from the horned beast and helped the old man strap it to his leg.
‘Just after you’d gone, saw you disappear under the quay and she joshed the game. Did you see where I’ve put me powder?’ the old man asked as his brain slipped from the world of others and back into his own.
‘Prince Regent?’ Mariah asked as he looked through the telescope and scanned the beach.
‘She’d be a fool to go alone. And yet that lad, Felix, has a power over the girl.’
Mariah continued to search the promenade and the beach through the thick lens. It was only a few minutes’ walk from the Golden Kipper to the Prince Regent, but somehow he hoped that Sacha had dawdled in her loneliness. He swept the brass arm back and forth as he systematically scanned each foot of sand.
Funnels of steam broke through the beach, pressed down by the cold night air. They billowed out like the jets from a fissure in a gigantic volcano about to erupt. By the edges of the sand the water bubbled and spat as the gases from below percolated and simmered to the surface.
Then Mariah caught sight of the Kraken striding through the mist, his long hair trailing over his shoulders. He stepped boldly from the sea towards the Prince Regent, stepping in and out of the long shadows cast by the thousands of tiny lamps that lit the whole building. And Mariah could hear, whispering on the wind, the first notes of Bizmillah’s orchestra as they picked the notes on their violas. They came like the sound of distant summer birds calling from far away. He followed the Kraken as he stepped across the beach, returned to the form of a man.
‘What do you see, lad?’ Charity asked as he put an arm around his shoulder.
‘The Kraken – going to the Regent.’
‘Sacha’ll be there already, up to some trick or other. This has taken so long to put together and for it to be spoiled when we were so close –’ He stopped, knowing he had thought too much out loud.
‘I suddenly feel as if I am a pawn in your game,’ Mariah said openly. ‘I feel like a greater hand has played my life and that all is not as it first seemed to be.’
Charity gently lifted Mariah’s head from the eyepiece of the telescope and pointed to a small picture above his head. ‘It’s surprising how we never see the obvious, lad. Do you recognise the place?’
Mariah scanned the faded painting. The yellows and greens had oozed at the edges and blurred together. It was obvious that this was a house, set at the end of a long drive lined with trees. In the distance he could see the banks of a river and beyond that the far hills of the south. In the foreground was the portrait of a young boy with fine blond hair. The child smiled out from ages past, but in an instant Mariah had recognised the eyes.
‘It’s you!’ he said as his mind raced to recognise what lay behind. ‘And the Colonial School?’ he asked slowly, unsure that the faded eaves and slate roof in the picture were those of his home for the last years.
Charity said nothing. He crossed the room and went into the kitchen. A short time later he appeared through the scullery door clutching a folded piece of parchment. Religiously he cleared the table by the window and with great ceremony unfolded each flap until it was laid out before Mariah.
‘Recognise this?’ he asked as he smoothed the paper with the back of his hand.
‘A writ of worthiness,’ Mariah said as he read the lettering at the top of the page. ‘I, Professor Jecomiah Bilton, in this, the first year of my incumbency as head of the Colonial School, do hereby discharge from duty John Mariah Charity into the company of Her Majesty’s Army for Colonial Service – Student First Class – 23rd December 1866.’ He read the lines again and again. ‘It was twenty years ago today. You’re a Colonial boy. You have my name. You … you …’ He gulped his words; his head was full of tears that burnt his lips and tore at his throat. ‘It can’t be true – that means you would have known my father.’
‘Why do you think you carry my name? How did you ever not know who I was? I was your father’s best friend. We shared everything, closer than brothers. When you were born he gave you my name. I was in India at the time and never saw the young lad that he wrote so much about.’ Charity pulled a wad of finely wrapped letters from his pocket and placed them on the table. ‘You can see for yourself – they’re all in your father’s hand.’
Mariah untied the wide band and slipped the letters from their clasp. He carefully opened the first one. It was written in purple ink on white vellum. His eyes scanned each line and followed each curl and scrawl. In the bottom corner of the note, folded back to stop the ageing, was a pen drawing of a small boy wrapped in a swaddling band, his head full of wiry hair. A line underneath read: Mariah – the only time he’s quiet is when he sleeps …
‘See,’ Charity said as he smi
led at the boy, ‘all I have said is true.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’ the lad asked.
‘Bilton wrote to me and told me of your discharge. I had been in the Sudan searching for your father and mother. The professor was concerned that so many boys had left the Prince Regent, and having had the letter from Otto Luger I took the fastest ship I could find. The train was a coincidence. I never expected a Colonial boy to travel First Class. I would have waited my time and kept watch. Then, when the moment was right, I would have made my presence known.’ Charity looked to Smutch who had fallen asleep in the window seat. ‘There is more to tell, but tonight we must end what has gone on. I know you have it in you. Just like your father. I can see a lot of him in your eyes.’
‘What was he like?’ Mariah asked. ‘He was away so often my memory fails me.’
‘Fine people, Mariah, fine people, kept from you by circumstances,’ Charity said, stifling the words.
‘Are they dead?’ Mariah said, rubbing his hands together nervously.
‘That I do not know, but I will return as I cannot rest until I have found proof.’
‘And what of tonight?’ Mariah asked as he stacked the letters on top of each other and tied them again into a tight bundle.
‘We will find Sacha, Felix and Perfidious Albion, and who knows what will become of us?’
[ 28 ]
The Sea Witch
ABOVE the steaming beach, in the darkness of the entrance to the Prince Regent, Sacha felt she was being watched. She had slipped quietly from the moonlit sand and into the cover of the brick portico. Looking back, she saw long moon shadows reaching in like dark fingers. To her right was a large storeroom filled with bathing carriages with their candy-striped covers and large wheels. The wooden lattice door that led into the labyrinth of underground tunnels was unlocked; its chain hung limply as she slipped the bolt and sneaked within.
The sound of the steam generator chugged over and over, the faraway hiss, hiss, hiss echoing though the passageways like a whisper inviting her further inside. The sound came as a reassurance to her, though her journey was blunt and harsh like entering a madhouse against her will.
She was gladdened to see the oil lamp by the door of Luger’s workshop was still lit. Its feeble light shone towards the entrance, clipped by a corner of shadow from the tunnel wall. The ceiling dripped with hot dew that slithered along the stalactites and then fell to the floor, forming large steaming puddles. Sacha knew she would have to find Felix alone. She couldn’t wait for Captain Charity to decide how it would all be done – it had to be her, she had to be the one who set Felix free. As she walked on she tried to justify tying up Smutch and leaving him turkey-trussed and gabbling to himself.
Within a minute she had reached the door at the end of the passageway. It was wedged slightly open by a small dune of sand that had been washed into place by the last high tide. She pulled against the thick iron handle, and the door opened with a low moan like a growling dog. Sacha shuddered as the urge to look behind overwhelmed her. For a moment she thought she could hear faraway footsteps. Quickly she pulled the door shut and slid the bolt on the inside, breathing heavily as she caught her breath. She fought against the urge to run. She began to regret leaving Mariah behind and coming alone. The thoughts of what could be following her multiplied with each step.
In ten paces she had turned the corner and was now spiralling deeper beneath the Prince Regent. To her left was the long dark tunnel that would lead her back to the oyster lagoon; ahead was the passage that would guide her to the Pagurus. She stopped and looked about, sure that the sound of footsteps echoed somewhere beyond – it was the tap, tap, tap of metal tips clattering against the sharp stone floor. Occasionally the sound would come through the tunnel as a muffled thud, then back to the crisp click of metal on stone.
Sacha found the noise would vanish and mix with the sound of the steam generator, and then suddenly it would be there again, echoing closer to where she stood. For a moment she looked at each tunnel, unsure as to where the echoing came from. Far away a door slammed shut, sending a chilled draught towards her. Sacha set off into the narrow chasm towards the oyster lagoon. Her footsteps danced rapidly over each stone as she ran from whoever was behind her.
Drawing nearer and nearer was the sharp sound of clicking heels. Just ahead was another wooden door, strapped with iron braces. She pulled the metal ring and the door edged slowly open, grinding against the hot stone floor. Her hands sweated upon the metal and she could feel panic slowly rising from the pit of her stomach. She rushed through and pulled the wood against the frame, then slammed the bolt and turned the key.
Sacha looked along the tunnel. To one side was a cutting in the rock as if a burrow had been commenced and then abandoned. It was warm and dark and deep enough for her to hide in without being seen. Quietly she went inside, pressing herself against the wall, holding her breath to stop the panic from breaking out. From beyond the door she could hear the clatter of footsteps coming along the corridor; then they stopped, and the door was suddenly rattled against the lock. Sacha stepped one pace closer and saw the iron ring of the door handle move again.
The rumbling of the steam generator seemed far away. In her heart she knew that someone stood on the other side of the wood and metal slats firmly bolted into their stone casement. She tried to listen even more intently, but all she could hear was the thump of her own heart. The door handle rattled again as someone pressed against the wood. Sacha instinctively slipped a little further into the darkness, just far enough that she could still see the door, and pressed her face against the warm stone. It was soft and dusty against her skin and smelt of the sea.
It was then that she saw a black-gloved hand, the tips of its fingers breaking though the fabric like red talons. It slipped through the wood of the door as if it wasn’t there. The hands grasped for the bolts, attempting to slide them back from the frame.
Sacha cowered down, trying to make herself as small as she could, hunching into the darkness and covering her face with her hands. She felt a twist in her gut as it rumbled and groaned. Sacha looked again, hoping the hands had vanished back to the far side of the door, but to her terror they had grasped the lock. There was a sudden painful groan like the sound of a dying animalconvulsing. A shoulder was pushed through the solid wood, then a foot, a long white ankle and finally half of the body.
It was clad in a long black dress that clung like a second skin to its wearer. Sacha had seen this person before. It was Monica.
From her hiding place Sacha could see the woman convulsing every fibre of her body, attempting to penetrate the solid wood. It was as if the door fought against her, making a trial of her effort to pass through it. Where Monica’s body had been squeezed through, the wooden slats were dripping with a glistening blue liquid that sparkled in the faint light as it slithered slowly down. By her incredibly neat right foot, sheathed in a shining black shoe, was a pool of the viscous liquid. It was as if it oozed from each molecule of her constricted flesh.
Sacha watched as the first layer of the woman’s forehead was forced through the door. A long, white and very powdered nose slowly appeared and then a bright red-painted lip pushed against a perfect set of American dentures. They sparkled white and twinkling in the soft light of the tunnel as a thin chin then appeared, unmoulding itself from the dark wood and leaving yet more liquid to trickle to the floor. It was a smile Sacha knew well. From inside the cutting in the rock she quickly got to her feet and began to hug the wall as she made her way along the passageway, hoping that she could sneak out of sight before Monica realised she was there.
In a matter of moments, the whole of Monica’s head had been forced through. She peered suspiciously into the tunnel, her sharp eyes looking around her. In a long glance she saw Sacha’s shadow as it crept further away.
‘Don’t think this door will keep me for long,’ Monica said as she pushed with her gloved hands against the stone, trying to pull her struggling flesh to freedo
m. ‘If a door can’t keep me then running away won’t do you any good.’
Sacha stopped like a rabbit trapped in Monica’s stare. She felt a sharp tremble of her fingertips as fear took hold of her.
‘That’s a girl,’ Monica growled. ‘Look at me …’
Sacha huddled against the wall, hoping the stones would speak and tell her what to do or that they would suddenly open and swallow her up. ‘I won’t,’ she said as she tried to walk on, suddenly realising that her feet were as heavy as lead.
‘You’re charmed, girl. You won’t get far. Feeling weaker?’ Monica said as she struggled to free herself from the door.
Sacha turned and sheepishly looked towards her. ‘I’ll still get away, I’ve got to –’
‘Get the boy? Felix?’ Monica said as Sacha stared at what looked like a disembodied head stuck to a wooden door. ‘Is that what you want?’
‘You can’t keep him!’ Sacha shouted, pulling against the walls in an attempt to free herself from whatever power now held her fast.
‘And you can’t move,’ Monica grumbled. ‘Caught like a spider in a web and never to escape.’ She mused for a moment and rolled her tongue around her mouth and then moistened her ruby-red lips. ‘Now, what shall were turn you into?’
‘Nothing!’ she shouted, the words echoing down the long tunnel to the oyster lagoon. ‘I’ll be turned into nothing. You won’t call me Scratty and have me china-faced.’
‘So you know? Very clever … Who’ve you been speaking to?’ Monica asked in her Yankee drawl, her neck appearing to be stuck in the door. ‘You’d make a better waxwork than a china doll, or perhaps … perhaps a stuffed child would look nice in my room. Covered in paper mashie and painted in bright pink. I could hang an umbrella from your arm and a coat over your head. You could be a hat stand or a lampshade.’ Monica giggled.
