Widdershins
Page 8
‘Ye-yes, sir.’
‘Inspector, you are to call me Inspector, not sir. When I ask you a question, you give your answer followed by Inspector. Got it?’
‘Yes,’ Job said, rustily adding, ‘Inspector.’
‘And what’s this?’ The Inspector bent down and picked up the spilt pipe giving it a prolonged sniff with his elongated nose. ‘Waste of good tobacco, don’t you think?’
‘I dropped it, Inspector, your man ’ere knocking gave me quite the fright.’ No sooner had Job spoken than was Forsyth right up in his face with further questions.
‘Frightened were you? Hiding something are you?’
‘I ain’t hidin’ nuffin’. It’s just a startlin’ thing to ’appen. A man coming in the early hours like this, knockin’ on your door as if the damn buildin’s on fire.’
The Inspector vocalised his doubt with a long “Hmmm…”.
‘And just what were you doing awake at such an hour as this?’
Job Button froze. He hadn’t crumbled yet. He was coping much better than he’d thought he would in the pointy nosed face of danger. But watching the Inspector search around the room, and draw near the bed, beneath which the stranger was hiding, caused a suspicious amount of perspiration.
At that very moment, the stranger, lying as still as he could, drew his pistol, ready to discharge a shot. The Inspector was about to pull the bed from the floor discovering the hidden man as well as a lead bullet right up his nostrils.
This tumultuous series of events came so very close to happening. But didn’t.
The Inspector lurched away from the bed and stuck his nose right in Job’s face once more.
‘Answer my question, man!’
‘Uhhh…’
‘What are you doing up at this hour. All alone in here. Should be sleeping? Shouldn’t you?’
‘I’m not really a day person,’ said Job, at last.
‘Day person?’ inquired the Inspector.
‘I drink a lot and the day don’t agree wiv me, see.’
The Inspector didn’t back down. He stared into Job’s eyes, searching for the truth. Then he stared at his hair and his brow and the droplets of sweat trickling down the side of his face.
‘You’re sweating an awful lot? Hiding something are you?’
‘Let me in,’ said the barman, storming through the Watchmen at the door. ‘Now you’ve done it! Disturbin’ my clientele – I ought to sue you in a court o’ law. I said t’ya, there weren’t nuffin’ o’ the sort goin’ on in this ’ere establishment. Now, sling your ’ook, before I–’
The Inspector lunged from Job to the barman.
‘Need I remind you, sir, I am the Chief Inspector of the City Watch. At the snap of my fingers I could have you shot for such lack of respect. I invite you to apologise.’
‘Apologise?’ asked the barman, infuriated.
‘Yes, apologise,’ repeated the Inspector.
Job Button stared at the two men, and out of the corner of his eye, the shadow beneath the bed.
The barman continued, ‘I’ll give you an apology alright. I’ll shove it right up your–’
‘Think, sir, I beg you, for your next words could be your last,’ said the Inspector.
The barman calmed his temper, taking a few deep breaths to reason with himself.
He apologised, begrudgingly.
‘Constable?’
‘Yes, sir.’ One of the Watchmen stepped forward.
‘Have the license of this establishment checked. Every single detail. I want the log book of its guests scrutinised. I want its suppliers questioned. I want all the citizens drinking here remanded for interviews. And, I want it prohibited from serving alcohol and renting rooms until we’ve got to the bottom of this.’
‘You can’t do that! We’ll go out of business. We’ve got rent that needs paying,’ said the barman.
‘We’ll inform the landlord of our investigation. Be good to talk to him too whoever he is.’
‘You’ll put us out of business.’
‘Perhaps we will. Perhaps in the future, you will better cooperate with the Watch. I shall expect your formal apology in writing tomorrow,’ said the Inspector.
‘Writing, sir?’ asked the barman, clenching his fists.
‘That’s Inspector to you.’
There was a brief, tense pause and everyone in the room, except maybe the Inspector, saw the next bit coming.
‘Well, Inspector, ’ow’s about you inspect this–’
…
Mildred looked on whilst her husband was dragged from the Medicine Tap by three Watchmen and thrown in the back of a jail waggon. The Inspector followed, a bloody rag over his nose and a troop of guards at his back.
There was no sign of Job Button and the strange man that had come to visit. In the commotion they must have slipped out.
It was empty at the bar. All of the customers had slipped out too.
She poured herself a drink, a rather large drink, and took a sullen sip, a rather large one. Then she stared at her empty glass a bit, and poured herself another.
Earlier that night…
Niclas emptied the sack onto the bed.
‘That’s three black candles, one roll o’ parchment, a stub o’ pink chalk, a bag o’ sea salts, a pencil and uhhh… I reckons that’s all, sir. I didn’t forget anyfing did I?’
‘No, that’s all I asked for,’ said Balthazar.
‘Them black candles woz proper spenny, sir. And I ’ad to go three different shops to find chalk this colour.’
‘You’ve done very well, boy. Now, I’ll need you to do some drawing.’
‘Drawin’, sir?’ said Niclas, suddenly a little alarmed.
‘Yes. Very easy. Don’t worry. I just need you to draw a circle big enough to lie in.’
‘Circle… that’s the round one right?’
‘…yes.’
‘Just wanna be sure, sir.’ Niclas picked up the pencil.
‘No. Not with that. With the chalk.’
‘Oh… Begs your pardon, sir.’ He picked up the chalk instead.
‘Roll back this rug first.’
Niclas rolled back the rug. Under it were old, unmarked floorboards which hadn’t been exposed for years.
‘Big enough to lie in… right… ’ere goes.’
Needless to say, Niclas’ first attempt at drawing a circle wasn’t very circular. It was more potato shaped. Yet, he didn’t think that was a problem and stood back impressed with his work.
Balthazar really hadn’t anticipated they’d run into trouble with this bit. He sighed and shook his head.
‘Wot’s wrong, sir? Too big?’
‘Wet a cloth. Rub it out. Try again.’
Three attempts later and Niclas finally drew something circular enough to be called a circle. It certainly wasn’t the ideal form of a circle. If there was an official board that went around judging circles, then this one would have got a very low mark. Though, top marks for effort.
‘You’ll need to draw a triangle inside it. That’s the one with the three lines.’
‘Wot kinda triangle, sir?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Well, there’s lots of different types ain’t there, sir. One which ’as got all sides wiv a different length. One which ’as got two sides wiv the same length. And one which ’as all sides the same like wot you get when you put your hands together like this.’
Balthazar stared curiously at Niclas’ gesture.
‘…an equilateral.’
‘Which is that?’
‘The last one.’
‘All sides the same?’
‘YES.’
‘Ok, ok. No need to raise your voice, sir. Just checkin’. Wouldn’t want to do a bodge job would I?’
Surprisingly, Niclas’ triangle drawing was a lot better than his circle drawing. He stuck his tongue partially out of his mouth to one side, closed one eye and squinted with the other, making a face of utter concentration. Which also happened to look like t
he face of someone who’s just had a very sour grape.
‘Good. Now another circle, if you’d please, in the middle of that triangle.’
‘Wot’s this for, sir? If you don’t mind me askin’?’
‘Focus on drawing.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
Niclas knelt down and drew the final circle, taking care not to smudge the existing lines.
‘’Ow’s that, sir?’
‘It’ll do.’
‘Reckon I could get the ’ang of this drawin’ business, sir.’
‘No more drawing. I need you to place a black candle at each point of the triangle.’
‘Ok, sir.’
‘Good. Now place the parchment in the centre.’
‘Any sorta way, sir?’
‘That’ll do. Tie the girl’s hair, carefully – we don’t want to break it – to the middle of the pencil. Good. Now put that on the parchment.’
‘Like that?’ Niclas stepped back like a chef putting the finishing touches on his pièce de résistance.
‘Exactly.’ Balthazar trotted into the centre next to the empty page. ‘Step out.’
‘Ok.’
‘Now pour the salt sparingly around the outer circle.’
‘Righto.’ Niclas picked up the bag of salt, untied the string and began pouring.’
‘Sparingly.’
‘Right, sir. Sorry, sir!’ The flow increased.
‘Stop, stop, stop.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Do you know what sparingly means?’
‘…not really, sir.’ Niclas blinked.
Balthazar took a deep breath and said, ‘less. Much less.’
‘Right, sir. Sorry, sir.’
‘It is vitally important that when this begins you do not enter the circle. Understood?’
‘Don’t enter the circle. Got it.’
‘Under no circumstances must you enter it.’
‘Yes, sir, I gets it.’
‘No matter what happens, you will not cross into the circle.’
‘…uhh…’ Niclas was beginning to get the feeling he was missing something. He was used to that feeling. It occurred at least five times daily. ‘I won’t go in the circle sir, no matter wot.’
‘You aren’t to disturb me or interfere in any way. Understood?’
‘Understood, sir…’
‘Actually. It’s probably best you stand quite far back.’
Niclas stood back. ‘’Ere ok, sir?’
‘Let’s try the other side of the bed.’
Niclas climbed over the bed. ‘’Ere ok, sir?’
‘Hmmm… on second thought, how about you go into the bathroom and get into the bathtub.’
‘I don’t needs a balf, sir.’
‘Do it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Niclas backed into the bathroom, climbed into the empty tub and sat, peering over the top through the door and across the bed. If it wasn’t for the mirror on the other side of the room, he wouldn’t have been able to see anything.
‘That’s a good spot, I think,’ called Balthazar. ‘Now, what’s the time? Yes… I think it’s late enough. Come back over here and light these candles.’
When the three black candles were burning, and the room’s lanterns dark, Niclas returned to the bathtub.
‘Boy?’ called Balthazar.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Could you shut the door?’
‘This one, sir?’
‘Are there any other open doors?’
‘No, sir…’
‘Then I suspect I mean that one, yes.’
‘Ok, sir.’
‘And, boy?’ said Balthazar, the door a crack from closing.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Stay in the bathtub.’
‘Will do sir. I ’ears ye loud ’n’ clear.’
Blackness.
Niclas twisted the nozzle on the bathroom lantern and lit the mantle with a long match. A flame was birthed, and the bathroom awoke in a low orange light.
He stepped into the bath and sat there. For a teenage boy who’d grown up in the slums without rule of law or those rarely sighted creatures called manners, he was remarkably well behaved. He just sat there, taking in his surroundings, not in the slightest bit moved about what was going on in the bedroom.
Anyone else would have been up on their feet, trying to peer through the keyhole, or listen through the slit at the bottom. But not Niclas.
Cassandra awoke. Sort of.
She sat up in bed as if pulled by strings. Her eyes remained shut, but her feet spun out of the covers and onto the floor. Then she stood. Her head sagged to her chest and bobbed there, her loose hair hanging down in front of her.
She didn’t walk, more shuffled across her bedroom to her dresser. There, she slumped into the chair and reached out across the table. Her fingers ran over her hair brush, her clips, her jewellery, her quill. Her hands were like blind spiders, searching the table top.
Then they found what they were searching for.
Books.
It wasn’t the top one. Not the second one either. Then… there it was. Its texture was familiar, and that little black stone, what else could it be?
The hands pulled the book closer. They opened it and flittered through its pages.
One of Cassandra’s hands held the page whilst the other moved to her face and parted her waterfall of hair. Its fingers grabbed either side of one eye and pulled the lids open. The eye underneath was white, her pupil dancing in the roof of her skull. It took a bit of work and focusing but soon the pupil dropped down, and her one eye, which looked oddly the same shape as a cat’s eye, glanced over the page.
The other hand turned the pages, each time waiting for the eye’s approval.
She was looking for something.
‘Hello…’
The voice startled Cassandra’s body. For a moment it sat up straight, one hand still on the book, the other clasping her face.
‘Hello… Who are you?’
There it was again. The voice was ethereal, and sleepy, as if half spoken in a dream. But it was startling, for it came from Cassandra’s own lips.
Her body returned to the book, rushing to find the right page. Time was short now. It wouldn’t be long before Cassandra’s mind caught her body out of bed. And that would take some serious explaining.
‘Wait… Martha… Mummy… is that you?’
Cassandra’s eye ran frantically over page after page after page…
‘Who are you? This isn’t… where am I?’ Her voice was beginning to carry weight behind it. It was getting less and less mumbled and more and more grumbled.
Her left hand was turning the pages so quickly now, that her one open eye was struggling to keep up.
There!
That’s the one!
Her right hand slammed down on the left to stop it. It returned to her face to open her eye. The dancing pupil focused once again and her body edged closer to study the page.
Niclas had noticed that the bath tap was dripping. It wasn’t particularly urgent but he thought perhaps he should tell someone. He wasn’t sure where the clean water came from, but it probably wasn’t an infinite supply. If a tap like that dripped and dripped, all day and all night, there could come a time when all the water ran out. And that wouldn’t be good. In the slums you had to boil the canal water when there wasn’t any fresh. And it still tasted rancid. Gave you a funny tummy too, sometimes.
He’d not been paying any attention to what Balthazar was up to next door. Partly because it was so quiet. The dripping bath was the only thing making a noise.
That was… until he heard Balthazar say something.
He wasn’t sure what it was but it sounded like a question. And this put him in an awkward predicament. Balthazar had specifically told him to stay put, no matter what. But what about when the cat was finished? How would he know?
Niclas climbed out of the tub, careful not to make a sound and crept over to the door
to put his head against it.
‘Hello… Where am I? I can’t see… it’s too… too dark…’ The voice was Balthazar’s for sure… but there was something odd about it, it sounded sleepy, half awake, and an octave or two higher than the cat’s usual tone.
‘Sir?’ whispered Niclas. ‘Everyfing ok?’
‘What’s that smell… candle wax… salt…am I dreaming?’
Whatever was going on, Balthazar was making some odd noises. There was a small chance, emphasis on the small, that he was in trouble, and what kind of employee would Niclas be, if he didn’t at least check.
So he took a deep breath and opened the door a sliver.
Through the gap he saw into the darkness of the bedroom. The black candles were burning rapidly but they gave off little light. He could just make out over the bed and in the mirror’s reflection, Balthazar, sitting still, chanting in a foreign tongue. And there was something else too.
The pencil with the thread of hair tied in a bow around its centre was upright against the parchment. It was scribbling. Writing without a master.
Niclas had never seen anything like it. It was as if the pencil had a mind of its own. Or, had borrowed one.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’ came the voice through Balthazar’s whispering chant.
Niclas looked closer at the cat’s reflection. His eyes were closed… no… they weren’t closed… they were black.
‘Sir… You alright?’ he whispered. ‘Psst, sir? Sir? It’s me Niclas?’
The cat’s head twisted.
‘Niclas? The library… The book?’
‘Sir?’
‘Niclas? Niclas!’ the voice was getting louder.
‘Wot is it, sir?’
‘NICLAS!’
Cassandra’s body shook. Hit by a supercharged bolt of reality, she fell backwards. Her right hand dropped from her face. Her left, slammed the book shut and pushed it away.
‘NICLAS!’ she was saying.
She tried to stand but her legs were still asleep. Her knees buckled and she collapsed in front of her bed.
Seconds later she awoke as if from a nightmare.
She sat up gasping, eyes wide, staring around at her empty, silent bedroom.