Bartlett finally snapped and turned on Malone, seizing him by the collar and lifting him from the stilt, which continued to flail in his grasp, and brought him to within a nose of the writhing negro. “Now, listen here … I won’t tell you again … we’re in a bloody rush and if you don’t get a bleeding move on then the deals off.” Bartlett felt his nostrils flaring from this rare fury. “If we’re caught, it’ll be more than my job I’m risking but my liberty too, and not just mine but yours as well.”
Malone wriggled in Bartlett’s grasp, his feet kicking as he made strange grunts. The chain clanked and dust fanned out from the bracket on the wall as the dwarf wielded his stick at the ready, in case it should be needed. Gorgeous managed to stretch farther forward, possibly because he’d dislocated his shoulder in an attempt to reach one of his tormentors but Bartlett was quick to retract the tinker, his point made.
“Not one more word,” Bartlett warned and he kicked Malone up the arse, pitching him forwards towards Hobbs.
Malone readjusted his cap and collar then snapped his fingers and Hobbs delved inside his cape, pulling out a set of manacles that jangled, astonishing Bartlett that he’d somehow managed to keep them concealed but judging by the size of the garment, maybe it was no great feat at all. The giant required encouragement, gentle at first, but which eventually turned to goading and prodding whenever hesitation was shown.
The patient screeched as Hobbs approached.
“Shush, Gorge, we’re taking you to a better place, where you’ll stand in a cage as your curious betters pay a tuppence to gawp at your boat race.” Malone tried to sound calm, reassuring and friendly, like he was attempting to soothe a mistrusting dog from its hiding place but alas, the effort was barely comprehended as the patient persisted with its yapping.
“Nigger.” Hobbs uttered and something cracked as he wrapped a large clam around his new friend’s palm, twisting it behind his back. Hobbs snapped the lock in place, repeated the process with the other and wrenched him to his feet, easily lifting him from the ground and dropping the chain over a hook on the wall so that the patient was hanging like a cheap portrait.
Hobbs donned the largest pair of leather gloves in the British Empire then thrust a ball down the negro’s trap, which immediately silenced it save for the clinking of chain and the thud of feet clapping against the wall. Bartlett watched, intrigued, as Hobbs then produced one of those sacks he’d once seen used by James Berry, the nation’s hangman, before pulling it over his head and yanking the cord tight, further muffling the desperate pleas. Hobbs then produced a set of shackles, presumably, for the feet. Bartlett let out an involuntary exhalation, impressed as he was at the efficiency of the process, that is, once they got to bloody work, and all the night porter could do was wonder how many others they’d taken in similar style.
Bartlett did not possess the key for the old ankle iron, which was still clasped around the foot, but it was no matter because Hobbs didn’t ask for it anyway and with brute strength and a strong stomach, he ripped it clean off as the swelling, like a pig’s bladder, exploded red, white and pink puss all over the wall, flags and Hobbs’ cape.
Bartlett retched in the corner but somehow managed to retain possession of his stomach’s contents, namely the sheep’s trotters he’d ravished at the start of his shift.
The new shackles were secured and then Bartlett was stunned further when Hobbs produced from within his cape a five-foot-long catch pole, which was then slipped over the negro’s head before he was lifted off the hook and made good and at the ready by the exit, like a newly caught stray dog.
He struggled forlornly, unable even to move his arms, the sack at the mouth already having changed from white to brown sucking in and out with every laboured breath but there was nothing the negro could do, as Hobbs held strong to the pole.
Malone was first to break the awkward silence that had built between the two since Bartlett’s reprimand. “So, Guv, how do you intend on squaring this with the pitch and toss?”
“The boss?”
“We’re walking out with your most esteemed guest. Tell me how you’ll do it, Guv.”
Bartlett fidgeted with his cuff. The truth was he’d given much thought to just that very question, knowing he could hardly use the spontaneous combustion excuse again, that much was clear, because the likelihood of such a rare phenomenon striking twice within the same building, and so close to the last occurrence, would be considered rarer than finding a sober Irishman at a funeral. He’d thought about playing it dumb but that would be tantamount to an admittance of negligence, which would almost certainly precede his dismissal in ignominy and his wife could never accept the loss of status that would be sure to follow from that. He’d soon come to realise that no matter what story he came up with, questions would be raised, the negro would be, after all, the second patient to disappear on his watch in only a matter of months. No, there was only one thing for it, and now, as they began to move, Bartlett put his big idea into action.
“Guv, what are you doing?” Malone watched, mouth ajar. “I thought you was in a rush?”
The night porter was kicking at the door, hammering it repeatedly with the sole of his boot, the almighty din testing their ears as the crashes resounded off the stone walls. The sweat ran down his cheeks, he flecked back his hair and spoke in a pant. “I have to make it look like he escaped.” He flapped a hand toward the discarded chain on the ground. “The bugger’s already bitten through at least one of them, everybody knows that.”
Malone and Hobbs exchanged a look. “It ain’t much of a cell door if a cove can just remove it with a few tickles from his daisy root, Guv.” He said something to Hobbs and then the larger man was looming close with an axe, of all things.
Bartlett stepped aside, too dishevelled to ask any questions and, still holding onto the darkie, the giant began raining blows down into the oak. The night porter scratched his head and finally found his wits. “And where the bleeding hell is a patient supposed to find an axe in an empty cell?”
But it was too late because the door was already hanging off its hinges, the floor covered in blood and puss darkened ash and splinters.
Bartlett tugged at his soggy hair and pleaded. “Oh dear, he could scratch his way out, right?”
Malone stifled his laughter and tried to sound reassuring, “of course, he could, Guv.”
Bartlett felt a sinking feeling but he’d just caused criminal damage, so it was too late to turn back now, to return the patient to his bonds, turf out his guests and rid the asylum of the manure stench before Smith or anyone else found evidence something wasn’t quite right. No, it was now all or nothing and so he led the way back down the long passage, through the treatment hall, to emerge in the atrium where the adulteresses were accommodated.
Once in the grand hall, the grandfather clock displayed a time of ten minutes to the fifth hour, which enabled Bartlett to rest easier, and once on the ground floor, his companions waited whilst the night porter took to tipping the clock over. It didn’t smash as much as he’d hoped but the bust of Erasmus Darwin most certainly did and some of the shards skimmed halfway across the entire length of the marble. He then went over to the Ruskin and stopped.
“Where the devil is it?” He turned around and just caught the back end of Malone slinking through the door. “The bloody tinker.” He ran after them, treading on the negro’s blood and shit as he did, and caught Malone by the still opened back door, just as he was struggling to climb into the opened coach. The patient was already inside, squirming on the bench, Hobbs was sitting on the driver’s box holding the reigns to four horses while the air stunk of manure, several piles of horse shit having gathered over the cobbles.
Bartlett grabbed the creature’s collar and heaved for breath. “What the devil are you about? Give me back that portrait at once.”
Malone was wide-eyed, looking like a child caught with his mitt in the sweetie tin. “I … just thought I was helping you out, Guv.” The tinker was quick t
o compose himself. “Think about it … the jig holds a grudge for all the unpleasantness what you put ‘im through. He smashes the place up, which was a great idea, by the way, Guv, but on his way out he notices one particular piece of art what looks valuable, even to one of his kind, and decides it might be worth pawning off down at the local Jew … fund his trip back to Africaland, or wherever it is what he’s from.” There was logic to the words. “I was just helping you out, Guv.”
Bartlett rubbed his chin. “Hmm, then why run?”
Malone’s eyes flicked up. “Umm, cos Smith was coming.”
“What?”
“Shhh.’ The dwarf jerked his head down the side of the building and sure enough, the lanterns were flickering in the foyer, an indication that the caretaker had indeed arrived. Malone made a deep sigh and whispered. “So you see, Guv, we was only looking out for our business associate, wasn’t we, Hobbie?”
“Ugh?”
Bartlett glanced over at the large dark shape of Hobbs and squinted because…
“We’d best be on our merry little way then, Guv, cos you have to clean up the steaming piles of Tommy tit what’s lying around the place … don’t want to leave any evidence, do we, Guv?” The dwarf had spoken quick, it was all so confusing and Bartlett’s head fizzed. Malone jerked his chin towards the opened carriage door, from where Gorgeous was moaning. “Couldn’t give us a peg up, could you, Guv?”
Bartlett had also been distracted by something else, as his mind spasmed and without putting any thought into the request, he picked Malone up and plonked him in the carriage, briefly clocking the painting and other trinkets on the seat as he did, which only added to the confusion, before shutting the door for him. Mission accomplished and don’t come back, you rotten little pikey. Bartlett had been lucky, on this occasion, and was five hundred guineas to the richer. “Yes, indeed, there is that.” He patted his pocket but the sack wasn’t there.
Malone jabbed the roof of the carriage with a stilt and shouted, “move!”
Bartlett quickly patted his other pocket, the one where his timepiece was supposed to be. “You thieving bastard.”
Hobbs, slow to react, finally cracked the reigns, his movement, through the gaps between body and arms, revealing something else.
Bartlett was still too shocked to move, in fact, all he could do was lean forwards and gape, aghast. Because sitting beside Hobbs was Mary Sanderson.
Malone leaned back and breathed as the carriage pulled away, leaving four piles of manure for the imbecile to deal with. The morning’s first light was establishing, Londoners would be rising to sweep chimneys, bake bread, sell their wares or else beg for scraps in the gutters and, not being able to take his eyes from his new companion, Malone leaned over to draw the curtains, lest any snoopers get the wrong idea.
“All right, Gorgeous, give my King Lears a bleeding rest.”
He was a noisy fellow, that was certain, and whatever heathen language the nigger was babbling would soon become tiresome.
But he’d done it. And Malone took a nip of whisky to steady his nerves and peered out through the side of the curtain, to London’s smog-filled grimness he’d soon be leaving behind forever. “Onto America, my China plate.” Onto America indeed, with his lover Mary, a bagful of Stapleton’s cash, a rather expensive dolly mixture and a star attraction for his new touring freak show. He could picture himself well set up, aye.
“You’ll be making me very rich, I say.” He rubbed his temples, pulled the window down and wafted at the air with a newspaper. “All right, keep it down.”
But the jig just wouldn’t stop moving the old north and south, and God only knew what had happened to the ball gag. He squirmed and wriggled on the opposing seat, somehow managed to bring his arms over to his front, which must have meant dislocating the shoulders and even now he was gnawing at the chain through the sack, which was heavy with sweat and some strange green substance, as shards of iron sprinkled over the blood-sodden carpet.
It was a long trip to Southampton from where they’d board a ship and Malone would be damned if he was to share the carriage for the entire duration with this creature. Not when his love, who he’d not seen in three years, was freezing out beside Hobbie and so he waited until they entered a wood before jabbing the roof with his stilt.
The carriage slowed and stopped.
“Out,” he said to the negro, “you’re riding up front with Hobbs.”
But Hobbs, on account of his phobia, would have none of it, and neither would Malone share a carriage with the rot whilst Mary was beside him, who he wanted to plough in the meantime. It was getting lighter, at least two other carriages had already passed on the cobbles and lashing the darkie to the back might draw the unwanted curiosity of plod. A quick decision had to be made.
“Hobbie, help me tie the blighter to the undercarriage.”
It took thirty minutes to complete, which Malone timed on the piece of rubbish he’d pick-pocketed from the idiot at the asylum. But finally, there was one coon spread and tied underneath and out of sight.
Mary came aboard, scrunched up her sweet face at the putrid air within, but regardless lifted her skirts willingly enough, from when a proper reunion could be had. The road through South London was bumpy, not that they noticed, and coins were strewn about the carriage as laughter was had and promises were made, where Mary would be troop mistress to Malone’s master and they would be the most famous show in all America, nay, the world.
Bump.
The clatter of multiple hooves grew louder and then soon after the whistle blowing began until finally, Malone could ignore the racket no longer and he drew back the curtains to see three plods galloping alongside the coach, waving batons for them to stop.
“Morning, all.” The senior constable enquired of the two men whilst the other two inspected the carriage. “We received a tipoff that some luggage may have fallen off.” Malone clasped his eyes shut as he felt his dreams withering away. “Mind if we take a look?”
The next evening was surprisingly uneventful for Bartlett and he wasn’t sure whether that was because, astonishingly, nobody suspected he had any involvement in the events that had transpired overnight, or because the top brass were going easy on him on account of finding him at the bottom of the grand hall stairs with a broken leg, having purposefully flung himself off from seven steps up. As per the original plan, it was Smith who’d found him, squirming and complaining, and escorted him to hospital where he was later discharged with a pair of crutches. Bartlett had explained, with a hazy memory, that one of the patients had somehow escaped, he’d confronted the reprobate, from where they’d tussled on the stairs, only he’d lost the encounter, and ended up amongst the broken shards of the late Erasmus Darwin. When he’d arrived for work there were police constables still snooping around, asking questions of anyone who happened to be there but miraculously, and for reasons unknown, nobody seemed interested in the night porter.
Indeed, he thought he might be due some luck, and he arrived for work the evening after that in cautiously optimistic spirits, that he might have got away with it, only to be immediately confronted by Murdoch, the top brass and a Scot, who had a sour face at the best of times but who was now looking like he’d spent the entire day sucking limes.
“Mr Bartlett, I would see you presently in my office.” Which happened to be on the top bloody floor and, with a dreadful foreboding flooding his entire body, the night porter made a deliberate display of wincing and pausing to draw breath with every pained movement.
Upon arrival, the anxiety and trepidation only intensified because there were two constables standing either side of Murdoch and all three men were holding expressions like Easter Island stone statues.
The grim formality of the office, which Bartlett had only ever seen the one time, the day after he’d sold the twins for two hundred guineas, gave him the same sinking feeling he’d last experienced the time he’d nearly drowned in the Serpentine. With Sasha and Freya, there had been no copper
s present and Murdoch had happened to have been in a positive mood on account of the birth of his grandson. Now, there were no extenuating particulars for the night porter to cling on to, no rays of hope, and so all he could do was feign more pain and discomfort from his injury, in the forlorn hope they’d go easy on him.
Murdoch stared grimly back, that reclining jaw of his bestowing a look of weakness that was more than compensated for by the cold, grey and hard eyes that set deep in his skull behind a set of wiry frames. “Sit.”
Bartlett wanted to flee, not sit, but his leg hurt like bloody hell, and doing so would likely cost him his employment, not to mention his liberty once they inevitably nabbed him a few paces from his starting position. He sat and cleared his throat. “Yes, um, may I help you?”
Murdoch remained stern-faced, giving away nothing in the way of alleviation. “As you know, last night there was an incident at the hospital … during your watch.”
Bartlett shifted in his seat and even though his head itched most irritably, he dared not move to scratch it. “Yes,” he said as confidently as he could, “and I already said … all I remember is tackling the reprobate, whoever he or she was, on the stairs. Unfortunately, I came out the worse, on account of being taken by surprise, bumped the old nob on the way down and, I can only assume, knocked over Erasmus as I did.” He flapped a sweaty clam, “that’s all I know … all I remember.” Nobody spoke for a while, they all just stared back, which made Bartlett so uncomfortable he felt the need to fill the silence. “What else happened? Anything smashed? Anything taken?”
Murdoch reached down and produced from behind his desk the jewel-studded Ruskin.
Zombie Revolution Page 27
