The Hangman's Revolution

by Eoin Colfer

  “I ain’t seen nuffink like you pair in all my born days,” continued the officer, now twirling his baton on a rope handle. “Blooming great man-boots up past yer knees. And wot, pray tell, is that rigout around yer neck? Perhaps you is some class of savage, or European? Am I right, ladies?”

  Vallicose prodded her partner with an elbow.

  Answer the man, said the prod. Tell him something believable.

  Nothing but puffed air came from Witmeyer’s mouth, and she seemed to be following the flight of an invisible bird with her eyes.

  “Nevertheless, foreign or no,” continued the bluebottle, “I am intreeegued, as they say.”

  The policeman’s eyes suddenly fixed on Vallicose’s sidearm. “And would that be some class of weapon a-hanging from your belt, madam? If so, I best be confiscating it and doing a thorough search of your person.”

  Vallicose allowed herself to be briefly amazed that a man wielding nothing more than a wooden stick could be faced with two hulking adversaries loaded down with firearms and still think himself with the advantage. Then she hugged the constable close, as one would a friend, and punched him solidly in the solar plexus.

  “No searching today, Citizen,” she said quietly, escorting the gasping copper around a corner into the darkness of an alley, where she slid him along a dripping wall into the embrace of creeping damp and shadows.

  It was a laughably simple conquest of a foe who barely rated the appellation, but though the maneuver had not cost Vallicose more than a single grunt of effort, she had paid in another way.

  When she stepped back into the light, Chevron Savano had disappeared.

  Vallicose swore and thumped her partner’s chest.

  “Damnation, Sister. Words and such are your forté.”

  The thump restarted Witmeyer’s brain. “Forté?” she said. “French, is it? You’re spouting French at me?”

  Vallicose was shocked at herself. “I apologize, Sister. Such blasphemy is uncalled for, but the girl has gone.”

  Lunka Witmeyer’s marbles were settling quickly. “Not gone, Sister. Out of our sight is all she is, and to disappear so quickly she must have taken the next crossroads.”

  Vallicose nodded. This was the partner she knew.

  “Yes, yes. But left or right is the question.”

  Witmeyer set off at a run. “Let us cross that road when we come to it.”

  They came to it quickly and were on the point of splitting up when an explosion sent shudders along the street, and a cloud of thick black smoke drifted out from the eaves of a distant building.

  “What are the chances?” said Witmeyer, with her nose pointed in that direction.

  “Praise be, it’s a sign, Sister,” said Vallicose, already planning how she would hurt Chevron Savano.

  There was a crowd of gawpers and gawkers assembled by the doors of the Orient Theatre, and the Thundercats shouldered through the throng as though their authority held good in this time. Once past the door, they settled comfortably into their combat routine. Vallicose first and low, Witmeyer upright behind, so any opponent would meet double fire. There was no illumination in the interior, but light flooded from the foyer, daubing a pale glow along the aisle. It was obvious that the explosion had done most of its damage on the stage, which had mushroomed upward in a tangle of planks. There were bodies in the stalls. Gunshot victims, tossed backward by the force of the projectiles that killed them.

  Witmeyer placed her fingers in a row of bullet holes in a backrest.

  “Either there were a hundred shooters…”

  “Or we have ourselves automatic fire,” completed Vallicose.

  A puzzling development for the Thundercats, as they had assumed themselves to be the only ones with such arms.

  “Savano?” wondered Vallicose.

  “No. She was supervised all the way from her bed and was unarmed. But this must be connected to Smart’s machine.”

  “Smart’s Boxless machine,” said Vallicose.

  “Boxless, of course,” muttered Witmeyer, the comment a sign that her wits had reasserted themselves; and for once Vallicose was comforted by her partner’s acerbic tongue.

  They advanced quickly, every sense alert for danger. A huge body in row C proved to be slightly less dead than supposed and begged for water in the name of God. In spite of the fact that God had been invoked, Vallicose shot him in the chest.

  “Clover,” said Witmeyer, her tone disapproving.

  “He was taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

  “I don’t mind that you killed the brute,” said Witmeyer. “You could have clubbed him. Our supply of bullets is limited. Also, it might have been an idea to question the man. He may have seen Savano.”

  “Two good points, Sister. From now on, bare hands or blades when possible, and only after interrogation.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  A moan emanated from the pit before them, boomified by the space. It echoed to the rafters, and others would have fled in terror, crying ghost, but not the Thundercats, who had heard the cries of the injured in eerier settings than this.

  The partners chuckled, knowing they were unperturbed where others would not be.

  “Remember, Sister, when that Jax butcher charged us with a cleaver?”

  “I remember he regretted it,” said Witmeyer. And they were silent for a brief moment, savoring the memory.

  Another moan rose from the orchestra pit, and the Thundercats crept soundlessly to the lip and peered over. A man lay tangled among the music stands with blood trickling from various minor wounds and one of his arms stretched a little farther than seemed normal.

  “It’s possible that he will live,” said Witmeyer.

  “Possible, but unlikely,” said Clover Vallicose.

  The man had committed no specific crime against Box or Empire that Vallicose was aware of, but she felt certain that a little interrogation would reveal some misdemeanor. And anyway, the first unofficial rule of security policing was that corpses were the worst kind of witness. Dead men do not talk.

  Vallicose swung herself down into the pit, landing neatly astride the unfortunate individual who was about to be seriously hurt as a prelude to being mortally injured.

  If this man can point us in the traitor’s direction, I might kill him without prolonged torture, thought Vallicose charitably.

  “Let’s be having you, Citizen,” she said, hauling the man onto his back by dragging on his dislocated shoulder. The pain must have been unimaginable. The man confirmed this by screaming high and jagged.

  Vallicose had a plan. She would ask her questions with her weapon pointed directly at the citizen’s head. This was one of her preferred interrogation tactics, but, as she had learned one messy morning in Police Plaza interview room B, best to always make sure the gun’s safety is on.

  Vallicose checked the safety and then frowned as her eyes drifted to the man’s features.

  There was something strange about the face.

  Clover felt her balance drift away, and her pulse pounded in her ears.

  What is it about this person? Something familiar.

  The man beneath her coughed and sprayed blood on Vallicose’s coat. An action that would have normally earned him an open-handed slap. But Clover did not strike.

  Why?

  Because there was something about that bloodstained face. Familiar, but more than that. Revered? Was that possible?

  Vallicose felt her hands shake.

  What is it? Who is this?

  Witmeyer’s whisper floated down from above.

  “Problems, Sister?”

  “N—no,” stammered Vallicose.

  Stammering? she thought. I haven’t stammered in decades.

  “Well then, the trail grows cold.”

  The man’s nose was thin and hooked. Di
stinctive. And it slotted into a face in her memory.

  It was so dark down here. Like the great pit itself.

  “A light, Sister,” she called to her partner. “Shine a light.”

  Witmeyer shifted for a better angle and then flicked the switch of a tiny halogen flashlight attached to her gun barrel. The man’s face was illuminated starkly, and Vallicose felt her face slacken with shock.

  Farley. The Hangman.

  It was him. It was. How many times had she seen the portrait over Director Gunn’s desk?

  Anton Farley.

  Those thin lips, and the slick of gray hair.

  This is why I have been sent here, thought Vallicose. God has a plan for His faithful servant.

  Vallicose felt the fever of devoted decades rush back to her in a concentrated burst. Overwhelming her. Prayer fragments dribbled from her lips as she cradled the injured man in her arms.

  Farley, she thought. I am holding the Hangman. The angel of death.

  The angel half-opened his eyes and spoke softly.

  “The colonel,” he said. “Take me to the colonel.”

  Vallicose broke down and wept.

  I knew a guy once who liked to argue about time travel. He liked to line things up, consequences and so forth. This moron thought winning the argument made him right. The wormhole doesn’t care about words. What happens, happens.

  —Professor Charles Smart

  GROSVENOR SQUARE, MAYFAIR, LONDON, 1899

  Riley had managed to engage a cabbie with the lure of a shiny sovereign, and soon they were clattering away from Holborn in the back of a covered carriage on their way to Malarkey’s secret gaff in Grosvenor Square. Chevie rolled Malarkey onto the bench, draping him with a heavy winter blanket she had pulled from under the seat. In seconds, blood blossoms bloomed on the green wool.

  “This is not good,” she said to Riley, who was tugging at the curtains covering the carriage’s side window.

  Malarkey tried to sit up. “Wot? Me hair, is it? They ain’t gone and singed me lovely hair.”

  “Don’t throw a fit,” said Riley, gently forcing Otto down. “Yer hair is in premium order. Rapunzel would weep with jealousy at the sight of a barnet like yours.”

  “Thank heaven,” said Malarkey, closing his eyes. “Oh, thank heaven. So long as I looks decent, I can bear all else.”

  “Decent?” said Chevie, taking in Otto’s attire. “This is decent?”

  “In truth, Chevie, he looks like a strumpet that got shot out of a cannon.”

  “You is giving me sauce, boy?” muttered Otto. “I is in repose, not deceased. And what’s more, I is your regent.” He seemed on the point of passing further comment concerning Riley’s impudence, when a shadow crossed his brow. “Barnabus.” He sighed. “I am alone now. An orphan.” A single tear traced the king’s wrinkles, rolling back and forth across his cheek, and he lay back without further protest. His breath slowed to a labored rhythm.

  Riley and Chevie watched him in silence for a few jouncing seconds, then turned to each other.

  “I haven’t missed cobblestones much,” said Chevie, as the carriage wheels lurched into and out of a rut. “But I have missed you, though I didn’t know it.”

  They embraced warmly until Riley pulled away. “What brings you here, Chevie? Come to save me, have you? And how can one body not know they missed another body?”

  “It’s a long story, kid. Let’s just say I haven’t been myself lately. But I’m back now.”

  Riley hugged her again. “And thank heavens for it, Chevie. You saved our bacon and no mistake. Farley came a-calling with his futuristic blunderbuss and was like to put all of us in the sod. Farley of all people. He was always such a bono Johnny.”

  Chevie assumed that bono Johnny meant good fellow and proceeded accordingly. “Yeah, well, that bono Johnny has a serious dark side. He’s from the future, like me. There’s a whole team of them back here getting ready to make their move on the government and royal family.”

  Riley crossed himself. “On Queen Vic? God save her.”

  “I don’t understand it,” said Chevie, rubbing her temples. “They should fail; they were supposed to fail. Those guys are all in their sixties by now. So why did their plan succeed this time?” She grasped Riley’s shoulders. “Did Farley say anything before he started shooting? Did he mention anyone?”

  Riley thought back. “He mentioned you. I thought it strange at the time.”

  Chevie’s guts twisted. “Me? What did he say, exactly?”

  “Something about how the FBI had sent you, so they could send someone else, and it was for the best to move up the schedule.”

  “Oh no, oh God.” Chevie slumped on the bench.

  Me. It was me.

  Box had moved up his plan because of her. If he hadn’t moved up the plan, then the Boxites would have failed for some reason. And so, because of her, the entire Boxite Empire had come into existence. The cult of Box had spread like a virulent weed across Europe and America. How many innocents had died? How many lives had been destroyed by torture and oppression?

  Chevie flashed on a slo-mo scene of Deirdre Woollen’s head falling away from a smoking gun barrel. Dying on the wet concrete for taking a wrong turn.

  DeeDee. Executed. It was too much to bear.

  All because of me.

  It was ridiculous, Chevie knew, to hold herself responsible for world events. She was a seventeen-year-old kid who had never wanted to go through a time tunnel. Why not blame Charles Smart? Or Albert Garrick? Or Colonel Clayton Box and his lust for power? She was a small cog at most, a low-value domino in a very long chain.

  It was ridiculous to hold herself responsible, but Chevie couldn’t help it. And the guilt was overwhelming, sending her thought process into spinning turmoil. She felt suddenly nauseated and light-headed, and sagged on the bench, breathing great gulps of air, trying not to be ill.

  Riley patted her shoulder. “Come now, Miss Chevron. We’ve been in rockier waters. A strong drink is all you need. A real grave digger, to settle your nerves.”

  Chevie’s gaze was fixed on the planks below her feet. She watched the green and brown river of cobbles flash past through a gap in the wood.

  Riley persisted. “Chevie, no need to pull the shutters up. In case you ain’t realized, we’re smack bang in the middle of a crisis here. Come on, now. Let’s be having the old Chevron, all sauce and vinegar. We could do with that Chevie and no blooming mistake.”

  Chevie spoke to the planks. “You don’t understand, kid. The future you remember: London full of tourists, the FBI, Queen Elizabeth—that’s all gone.”

  “Not Harry Potter too?” said Riley, horrified.

  “Yes, Harry Potter. Everything. Farley and his comrades launch missile strikes on the Houses of Parliament, Portsmouth, and Windsor Castle.”

  “Queen Vic gets it?”

  “No, she gets strung up along Piccadilly.”

  Riley stared at his hands, which had begun to shake. “Cockneys will never stand for Queen Vic’s murder. We love the old Widow of Windsor.”

  “The people don’t get much of a say in it. Colonel Box comes out of the catacombs with his legion armed to the teeth with this sort of weapon.” Chevie nudged Farley’s bag with her toe.

  Riley was puzzled. “A legion of old dogs, though, you said. Even Farley was past his prime. How is these graybeards going to conquer an army?”

  This was a very good point, and Riley came up with his own answer.

  “The Rams. Farley gathered the top dogs all together in the Orient for a neat assassination. Your Colonel Box is planning to enlist the rest—the roughest, toughest band of godless bully boys in London—to do his dirty work.”

  It made perfect sense.

  “Farley takes out the high command,” said Chevie, nodding. “Then Box steps in with his tea
m to take over. Presto, he has a trained army ready to carry out his orders.”

  They sat in silence, contemplating the impending disaster as they watched over the slumped bulk of Otto Malarkey.

  We are the unlikeliest of trios, thought Riley.

  And he was right. The ingredients of their particular stew did make for a queer broth: a boy magician, a future police officer, and a Ram king. But there was one other trio in London, freshly formed and moving toward their own haven, which was equally unlikely.

  Two Thundercat warrior women and a tattooist.

  There was silence inside the covered cab as Riley and Chevie saw violent futures painted in their minds’ eyes, and the cacophony of London town beyond their curtained compartment made little impact. They did not notice the gradual ebb of the human tide or even the slight sweetening of the air as the cab jostled from Holborn to the more genteel surroundings of Grosvenor Square. Nothing much registered in their troubled brains until the cabbie rapped a board with the heel of his whip.

  “Grosvenor Square,” he called. “All ashore.”

  Grosvenor Square, Chevie thought. Why does that address sound familiar?

  They alighted from a cab already rank with the sour smells of their own blood, sweat, and fear into a candy box painting of a square, lined with beautiful terraced town houses set around a private park. There were no prone beggars underfoot transferring their personal filth to the pristine footpaths, nor clusters of belligerent corner boys hawking their tobacco phlegm onto the scrubbed cobbles. It was altogether a smarter area of London, and not the class of address that generally harbored as roughly hewn an oaf as Otto Malarkey.

  The Ram king leaned heavily on his rescuers and growled at the cabbie to stay the blazes where he was until they gained entrance to his manor. The cabbie, rightly surmising that there might be hell to pay from this wounded beast if his wishes were not promptly met, did as he was bid and held his pawing horses fast, hoping Nobbie and Daisy did not pick this moment to raise their tails, as this was not the kind of square where a fellow could ride off and leave deposits on the road behind him.