I figured then was a good time to stop talking to Stevens. He was doing little to boost my confidence.
We landed on London Airstrip One, the first airport of the United Kingdom and a crowning achievement in our current rebuild. We disembarked before the other passengers and were met on the airfield by two horseless carriages. I’d never actually ridden in one of these marvels; neither had Mary. We were escorted into the rear seating area where we were joined by Stevens. Mr. Hannosh placed himself in the driver’s seat. Darwin took a separate car, I imagine to distance himself from this part of the adventure, to return to his pretend life as a benign scholar.
Mary kept silent, but the grip she kept on my hand spoke more than words. I envied her philosophy, accepting one day at a time, finding joy in the joyless. Her time as a prostitute certainly prepared her for partnership with me. I’m the polar magnet of bad times and surviving days by the sweat of my brow or skin of my teeth.
The horseless carriage did nothing to calm my nerves. It rattled and hummed unnaturally. At one point Hannosh accelerated to pass a horse buggy and I swore by the whine of the engine that the entire machine would explode, would consume us in a ball of fire and steam. I observed Hannosh manipulate the lever. There were two for left and right movement and a third for drive levels. There were what he called gears, and foot pedals for acceleration and breaking.
We reached Oxford as fast as any train. We passed the university and turned off the primary road onto a dirt path that bounced the horseless carriage unmercifully. We ventured deep into the woods, where elms and crack willows swayed and held a court all their own. The sun itself was held at bay in these thick woods, allowing only the shifting speckles and rays admitted through leafy branches and a never-ending breeze. The cabin was a rustic rectangle of stacked oak and mud mortar. It looked like a landscape painter’s idea of country seclusion. Mary put her hand to her breast.
“Isn’t it brilliant!” she said.
“I could die here,” I said in grim seriousness.
She took my hand and held it to her breast and the smile on her face told me that my worries had not registered, that she had retreated to this moment and this moment was beautiful. I loved her for that.
Stevens lifted a canvas sack out of the carriage boot.
“Here are the rules,” he said. “You stay in the cabin. You do not leave the cabin. No one goes into or out of the cabin. You are not to use the doors or the windows. Your use of the windows are a moot point seeing as they are sealed shut. Everything you need is in the cabin. Food, supplies, lav, water, books… we’ve even been gracious enough to stock you with liquor and beer. We stay here and wait for your assassin.”
“What if he’s successful? What if I get taken like Nouveau?”
Stevens gripped my shoulder.
“Never fear, mate. Barnes does not have enough men left to come at you with numbers. He has to use the same plan as us; low numbers, precision shooting. But precision shooting takes time, placement, and patience. Any man who comes for you is going to be on the bastard end of time. He’s going to have to find you, spot your routine, set up a good shot, and execute it. Time is our ally. Hannosh is a tracker, I’m a tracker. We will disappear into these woods and come upon any would be assassins.”
“I would feel better with my guns back.”
Stevens shook his head.
“Your feelings aren’t part of this plan. Now be a good boy, and attend to your location. I’ll check on you at intervals.”
Stevens let go of my shoulder. I escorted Mary into our cabin, our honeymoon prison. Stevens was correct. The cabin was well stocked with fresh loaves of white bread, strawberry preserves, tins of fish, tea, a wood burning stove, water, and a dozen bottles of hard liquor. They were quality brands of whiskey, gin, vodka. There was even a cylinder phonograph, though the only music stocked was the Bolshoy rendition of Swan Lake. Darwin has a vicious sense of humor. The supplies occupied what I came to think of as the living room.
The cabin had one other room, adorned with a double bed and a clothes rack with apparel for Mary and myself. Mary hooted and spun and rifled through the provisions, treating each find, each discovery, as a gift, a celebration. The first day we spent in Darwin’s cabin was very much what I imagined a honeymoon to be. Hannosh and Stevens vanished into the elm groves. Mary fashioned a lunch of pan-fried sardines on slices of oiled bread. We drank whiskey with our lunch, after our lunch, and throughout the afternoon. We listened to the cylinder phonograph. We shared stories of the not-too-recent-past. When the sun dipped and the forest darkened, I opted not to light the stove or any of the lanterns. No need to make an assassin’s job easier. Mary found me in the dark and we kissed and fondled and made exhaustive drunken love. Willow branches brushed our windows and Mary fell asleep, but I couldn’t; not with a killer in the woods. Nor could I sleep with the knowledge that no matter who was searching for me, Darwin was setting the stage for him to find me.
The next day found me in a dark and sullen mood. Mary took her time choosing a new outfit. I changed my shirt, but kept the same trousers and jacket. My old jacket had served me well. In fact, it even had my syringes in the lining. There were three tubes of seven percent solution and one of a special little surprise no one had found or thought to look for.
In the early evening, Stevens entered the cabin with a stack of newspapers.
“Thought you might get a kick out this,” he said.
I had made the headlines of all of them.
Murderer, Anarchist at Large
Jolly Anarchist Cause for Whitechapel Riot
Thief Catcher Turned Murderer, Fugitive
Apparently all three papers had turned to the Metro sketch artist for my picture, because each edition used an identical portrait. I looked into my eyes, positively radiant with murderous rampage, my jowls, my thick nose and forehead. The artists had even included the mutton chops I had shaved three days prior. Bloody hell! I liked the chops, but now that look was dead to me.
“A regular celebrity you are,” Stevens said.
“Barnes?”
“Of course. He’s reaching out for you.”
“This article says I’ve been convicted of murder in absentia. I can’t ever go back to London, can I?”
“Buck up, Jolly. It’s not all so grim. Let us resolve this and Mr. Darwin will find you an amicable solution.”
Stevens’ words did not help or soothe. I returned to my cabin and drank whiskey. I tried to ignore Mary, possibly to punish her, but more likely to punish myself, like I was unworthy of her attention in my funk. She defeated my sullenness with warm bread pudding. It’s true what they say about the nature of a man’s heart. After my meal I let myself be lead to the bedroom and hunkered down for a long rest. Through the night I went black and dreamless. I succumbed to the catacomb of ultimate sleep and awoke refreshed, a man strange to the world.
Mary was in the living room, frying a combination of beets, capers, and fish. She took to domesticity with a desperate zeal, like if she just kept cooking and care-taking then she would never have to return to her old life. I saw this and it made me first happy, then deeply glum.
“Mary,” I said.
She smiled at me and went on with her cooking. I stopped her, took her hands in my own.
“No matter what happens, while I live I will make sure that you are safe. You will never go back to your old life. Ever.”
You can never take for granted what words must be said. I’d thought that my declaration was a given, something understood based on what we’d been through, but apparently I was wrong. The words broke her down. She collapsed onto her knees and cried. I sat to her level and held her. She wept for what must have been a solid half an hour. We didn’t speak, I just held her. The food on the stove burned to a char, but we let it blacken, let it fill the room with smoke while she cried and cried. I think she was purging a lot of bad thoughts, a lot of fears, or if not purging, coming to terms with fears she had ignored, repressed as
a necessity. I don’t know. I’m no good with women.
Mary threw away the burnt scraps of lunch and started fresh. After her long cry it was like nothing had happened. If it weren’t for her puffed red eyes you’d think nothing had transpired between us.
“Lunch will be ready in a moment. Would you like a cup of Earl Grey?”
“That would be lovely,” I said.
I looked out the window. The elms and crack willows danced their eternal dance in the wind. First swaying one way, then the next, refracting the light of the sun and throwing a mixture of live patterns onto the muddied earth. I watched the sway, the dips, and I heard the leaves rustle and flutter across the ground.
“Have you noticed?” Mary asked.
“Noticed what?”
“The light in the windows. It’s funny.”
She was right. A sun beam shone through and revealed that the base of the frame was of an unusual size. It was thick, like a block of ice instead of a window. The glass itself must have been twelve centimeters thick set in a custom frame of similar proportions. I touched the glass. It was warm and little rainbows set in the refracted light between the outside and inside. Something struck the glass, hard and sudden like the sting of a hornet. I fell back in surprise. A bullet had lodged itself in the thick glass, head-level to where I’d been standing. Two more rounds struck the glass; thwack thwack, and then the entire block imploded and covered the living room with thick shards of glass.
“Get down!” I yelled. It was unnecessary. Mary’s survival instincts were formidable and she’d taken up behind the iron stove at the first bullet’s impact. I rolled away from the window, cutting my right hand on a shard on the process. A couch cushion exploded, then a bottle of whiskey. Every exploding object was followed by the popping rifle report, somewhere off in the wilderness. I slid up against the cabin wall, the living room table splintered and ruptured into two pieces. The frying pan jumped off the stove and twisted in the air. Someone was screaming, though I couldn’t tell if it was Mary or me. I looked around the room for a weapon, an item I could clutch and wield and feel just a little less vulnerable and endangered.
I tore my shirt and wrapped a strip of cloth over my wounded hand. It was the same hand I had cut on the drain pipe two weeks prior. The fresh wound criss-crossed my mostly healed scar, leaving a deep “x” across my palm, something for the gypsy readers to ponder later.
It took a moment for me to realize that whoever was shooting had stopped firing into the living room. The forest was still alive with the pops of gunfire, but now it came from everywhere. In front of the cabin, behind it, echoing through the trees and hills and giving confusion to all the small creatures who were yet to grow accustomed to mechanized murder.
I grabbed a dagger-sized bit of glass in my wrapped hand. I dared not look out the window, but the front door was less than a meter from my hiding spot. The shattered window was a meter in the other direction. Anyone coming in was coming in right on top of me, and I fully intended to get on top of them.
A familiar voice cried out in pain in front of the door. Stevens. I felt no alliance with the bastard but his cries were shrill and animalistic and the compassionate side of me took over. I opened the door a sliver. Stevens was laid out on the ground. The shooter had done for him but good. Stevens’ left leg ended in a bloody stump trailing squid tentacles of flesh and tendons. His foot was two meters up the path, upright and standing still, as though waiting for its owner to reclaim it and walk away. Stevens was crawling to my door all hands and elbows. He gripped a fistful of sod, pulled himself a few centimeters, dug the butt of his rifle into the dirt, pulled himself a few more centimeters and so on. The dirt exploded near his head. Stevens rolled onto his back and fired a blind shot into the wilderness. Another round lodged into a nearby tree, raining bark and splinters over the downed man.
I threw the door open and ran to Stevens, not giving thought to myself being the popular target. The forest came alive with gunfire. I seized the back of Stevens’ jacket collar and dragged him the remaining distance to the cabin, all the while him firing covering shots into the forest.
Mary was already at the door when we reentered. She removed her belt and applied it as a tourniquet to Stevens’ leg. He jerked and screamed and blood pooled up under him pretty fast. I was amazed at Mary’s pragmatism. No squeamishness in that one.
The living room once again was assaulted with rifle shots. I shouldered Stevens’ firearm, pulled back the bolt, and moved to the very edge of the window. A quick peek showed two targets running for the cabin from flanking positions. One wore an ape mask, the other an elephant. Of course.
“Stevens, how many rounds are in your rifle?” I called out. His first response was a scream. Mary put her foot on his leg and pulled her belt tourniquet with all her strength but his leg still bled freely.
“Bullets, goddamn it! How many?!”
“I don’t know!”
Shite!
“Do you have any on you?”
“No, ah!” Mary gave his tourniquet another good yank.
I peeked again. The maskers were closing the distance in long quick strides. Each had a mean-looking long rifle, something meant for range and punch if Stevens’ missing foot was any indicator. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to three. I thought about my dad, about Mary, about Barnes, and Darwin, and even the Swan. One minute your life is hell, the next it’s heaven, then back to hell again with no breathing room in between. I opened my eyes, gave a bellowing war cry, and stepped into the line of fire.
Things slowed down as they often do in moments of extremity. I saw the maskers at fifteen meters, equidistant from each other and myself, like some mystic triangle. I fired a round at ape mask, missed, drew back the bolt, locked it, and fired again.
The second shot missed. The rifle’s magazine strip popped, and I knew I was out of the shooting business. Ape and Elephant opened up. A round tugged my jacket. I fell to my knees, tasting blood and knowing that my moment had come. I would die a man of action, and even if it were on my knees, I would have firearm in hand, boots on my feet and a curse on my lips.
“Come take your licks you right bastards!” I screamed at the approaching maskers. They’d seen my magazine pop, my rifle become a relic, a thing more of weight than value. Elephant lifted his mask. It was Myron Bell, of course.
“I’m sorry, Jolly. It’s just business.”
He raised his rifle up and suddenly Hannosh was behind him, cloaked in leaves and armed with nothing but a curved knife. Hannosh ran his blade over Bell’s neck. The curved blade didn’t just cut Bell’s throat, it ruptured his neck like a sack of blood.
Ape swung his rifle to the new target, but was stopped when Hannosh flicked his wrist. The curved blade embedded itself in far off tree. Ape’s rifle dropped to the earth. His right hand still clutched the trigger guard, though Ape was no longer in possession of rifle or hand.
Ape wailed and waved his stump, a man consumed by panic. Hannosh punched Ape hard enough to break his mask and knock the poor sod out. It was Edgar Smithly, formerly of Bow Street, formerly an esteemed colleague. Hannosh put a hand on my chest.“Help me get them to the carriage,” he said. His accent was thick, but he spoke slowly and clearly. We lifted Edgar and loaded him into the boot of the carriage. Afterward, we carried Stevens to the passenger compartment. He had wrapped the end of Mary’s belt around his right hand.
Mary and I made to climb in with Stevens but Hannosh stepped in front of the door.
“Stay here. Stay inside.”
I wanted to argue, to tell him that his man might bleed to death without an attendant, but after seeing him dispatch the maskers the way he did, the man struck fear in me. There was no shame in admitting he was a genuine killer. I held Mary back and Hannosh took off in the carriage.
Mary and I returned to the cabin. A quiet breeze entered through the hole in the window. The trees swayed and the wisping of their leaves became the dominant sound. Mary picked thro
ugh the shattered tins and crates. She came across an intact bottle of American Bourbon. Her hands shook as she poured a glass, drank it down, then another, and another. When half the bottle was gone she looked up to me.
“Can I pour you a drink, love?”
“Please.”
She didn’t bother finding another glass, just filled up the one she was using. She stepped gingerly through shards of glass and splinters of wood. I took the glass and saw that she was crying again. I put the glass down, gently took her wrist and pulled her into my arms. There was nothing to say, so I held her while she cried.
Fourteen
Jolly is Debriefed by Mr. Charles Darwin and Company
No one came for us that night, or the night after. We got fiercely drunk after the shootout, unreasonably drunk. The second day was spent cleaning the cabin, taking inventory of our supplies. We discussed how long we’d wait before venturing into town on our own. I proposed that we wait until all supplies were depleted, given my fugitive status in the region. Why survive an assassination attempt only to get hanged by the government?
Mary cleaned and stitched my hand. In a fool bit of timing, I recommended we get married. She started crying again. In retrospect I realized that marriage proposals are better stated in moments of flowery romance and not when they just pop into your mind. My clumsiness with the fairer sex was getting the better of me.
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