by Lucas Thorn
“Have you ever walked through the place? It’s full of some of humanity’s most shameful specimens, all of whom are ripe for a vampire’s attentions. Even one as immature as Lucy. I mean, really. You have to be mad to live there to begin with.”
“Or born too poor to live anywhere else,” Kuhn muttered.
“Oh, don’t use that old guff,” Harker chuckled. “I wasn’t born to rich parents, and I would never live in such a ghastly place. I have far too much self-respect.”
“What do you mean? Your parents own a shipping business, Harker.”
“Yes, but it’s not exactly a big one.” He waved them off. “I worked hard to get where I am, Max. Very hard. Anyone can do it, you know. Just roll up your sleeves and dig in, I say.”
“What time?” Kuhn grunted with a grind of his teeth.
“Pardon?”
“What time does he want us at the Club?”
“Oh. A little after ten should be fine. We should be well-rested and cleaned up by then.” He tapped the table and got to his feet. “Now, I’ve got to go. I need a bath something terrible. I had to pay the girl who lent us her kitchen. She was a nice enough thing, but I can’t shake the stink from my nostrils. Paid her too much, if you ask me. Still, it was worth it to see the Doctor nearly piss himself when a cockroach walked over his face. I’ll see you both at the Club. Don’t forget what I said, and dress fittingly. We don’t want to embarrass the old man, do we?”
As Harker shuffled away, Kuhn turned cold eyes to Wesley.
“What do you think? I mean, really.”
Wesley shrugged. “I think he’s a cunt.”
“Not Harker. The whole thing. Van Helsing. The Club. Ripper murders. Salisbury. The mind-controlling vampire. Bloody everything.”
“Stinks worse than he did. We’d best watch our backs.”
“Yeah.” Kuhn nodded. “That’s what I figured.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Renfield left the little pub in only a small hurry. Had a can of beer in his hand, which he finished before kicking it down an alley and moving on with a whistle ghosting over his lips.
He shouldered through a couple of drunks blocking the street. Tipped his hat at them in a rare sign of congeniality. “Good evening, good evening. Hoo hoo.”
“Evening,” one mumbled back.
“God help me,” the other moaned. Leaning against a wall. Vomited down the brick face for the second time. Stringy golden curls slithered from his mouth. “I do feel poorly, Starc.”
“Ashes and dust,” Renfield muttered before sliding past. “Ashes and dust. Some lads don’t do it by half.”
Started whistling again as the man he’d been following turned left. Renfield stopped to watch him disappear into the fog.
Sent a salute after the dark shadow. Chuckled to himself; “And here’s to you, Mister.”
Turned right. Followed the street to its forked conclusion before heading into more familiar territory. Down seedy paths filled with weekend crowds hustling and shoving each other. Shrieks of laughter. Roars of excitement. Savage curses.
A grunt of pain from an alley.
Wet sob from a crooked lane.
Someone pissing against a wall down another.
A pair of whores rested at a corner, standing under bright lights. They’d moved away from the darker streets. And, though they pretended not to care, he knew what they were afraid of. What had driven them to the light.
Leather Apron.
The Ripper.
Jack the Lad.
Sir Jack? Sir Renfield. Lord Renfield.
“Here, love,” an older hag called. “You look a man in need of company.”
“Aye,” he called back. “But it ain’t you I’m looking for tonight, love. Ta-rah!”
She took no offence. Simply looked for another clean face which might offer a shilling or two more than she was worth.
A skinny girl came skipping up to him. Maybe thirteen years to her, if that. Bright-eyed and grinning. “I saw you,” she chirped. “Saw you push that old harlot loose. You don’t like them old, do you? I can tell. I know the type. You want something younger, Mister? Something fresh?”
He paused as she thrust out her thin chest.
It wasn’t the first time a young girl had shoved herself at him. He looked around and found the girl’s father watching from a corner. The man had a mean face.
Real mean.
Renfield dipped into his pocket and came free with a few coins, which he pressed into her hand. “Don’t you be spreading it around,” he said. “Little tyke. Giggles and garterbelts. Your face is too clean. Give your piece to you dad. But make sure you buy something pretty for yourself, girl. Hear me? You hear me?”
“But-”
“What I want, you can’t give.” His voice sounded calm and warm in his ears. “And if you tried, you wouldn’t like it. You’re not cockroach. Nor fly. Nor spider or rat. And though I know you would taste as sweet as delight, to my Mistress would you belong. Oh, pretty face, pretty face. Pounce like a cat. A hawk on the mouse. Enough. Fuck off with you, before I change my mind.”
She ducked her head and skipped away.
She looked back once to see him leering after her with a corner of drool sliding down toward his chin.
Then he speared off through the crowd with a cheerful swagger. Arms waving like the madman he was. Shouting; “Move! Make way for Sir Renfield of Whitechapel! Make way. Hear here! Look out, ye gutter rats! Ye purveyors of slime. Sir Renfield is here!”
“Hold up,” someone called. “It’s his Highness, the Renfield!”
“The Renfield!” A shout went up from a couple of drunks outside the closest pub. “Bless your old heart, your fucking Majesty!”
“And to you all,” Renfield hooted back. “Ugly face. Beast breath. Sour sweat. Blessings to my subjects all.”
Laughter followed him, but he didn’t mind. Didn’t care.
Mockery had been in his shadow since he was a child.
And it wasn’t their fault they didn’t know him for what he was. One day soon, they would. Then they’d show their respects. Drop to their knees and there’d be no laughing then.
He couldn’t wait to have them wait on him.
Awed into silence.
“Make way,” he hissed. “Make way.”
Coughing into a street lighter of crowd, he found the pub he was looking for and went inside. Looked around, gaze flicking from face to face. Grinned as he saw her.
Slapped a hand loudly on the bar and gave a wheezing cackle as the bartender rolled his eyes. “Renfield! Don’t you be causing no trouble this time, mate.”
“Trouble is not of my causing, Robert of Caulfield.”
“I’m not from Caulfield. How many times I got to tell you? Ah, forget it. What d’you want, little man?”
“Beer. Is that respectable, do you think? Or should it be wine?”
“I wouldn’t drink the wine,” the woman said. “Tastes like he pisses in it.”
“Then beer will have to do,” Renfield said, smiling at the bartender’s scowl. “In a glass if you please, my good man.”
“A glass, is it?”
“Yes, Robert of Caulfield. A glass, please. And have my letters arrived?”
“Letters?”
“Of course. I tell everyone. I says, if they want me, they can send word for me at my Club. This is my Club. A club fit for a gentleman of the world, don’t you think?”
“Your Club?” Robert frowned. Then couldn’t help a sardonic laugh. “Sure. Why not? Renfield’s Club. That’s what I’ll call it. I’ll have the sign changed on Monday, I will. Here, mate. Have your beer. And I won’t even spit in it.”
“Generous,” Renfield said. Wide eyes watched the beer pour from the tap and he held both hands out to accept the cup. “Oh, glorious beer! Don’t you think this a miracle of the ancients? Its makings stir the strongest man to weep as he contemplates the full majesty of creation!”
“Yeah, yeah. Be a shilling.”
“And cheap, too!”
“Sure, mate.” The bartender stuck out a hand and snapped his fingers. “Come on. I got others waiting.”
Renfield deposited a coin in the man’s waiting palm. “Thank you, good sir. When Renfield is Lord of the Manor, he will not easily forget your gentle kindness. Hoo hoo. Up we go. Thickets and cheese.” And he lifted the cup to drink with long gusty swallows. Finishing, he slammed it back down on the bar and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Let out a raw exhale of glee. “Best beer in all of England!”
“Then you ain’t travelled far,” the woman said, not too sourly.
“Good lady, I have been hither. I have been thither. And I have been wither and there. Crickets and roaches, I’ve swallowed them all. Don’t look at me like that, we all do what we must. Survival is the biggest game of all. Why, this very night, I took drink near Lansdown House. I supped with a Lady just up from Burlington Mews. And on the morrow, I’ll be sitting on the docks with a a basket of fresh strawberries while I await the arrival of the Queen. So, I know a good beer when I drink one.”
“Strawberries?” The young woman let out a long laugh. “Oh, now I know you’re pulling my leg. Ain’t nobody’s getting those.”
“Renfield is Lord,” he exclaimed. “Sir Renfield. Renfield of Whitechapel. He gets what he craves, and it’s strawberries he desires.”
She leaned on the bar and swivelled to face him. “You’re an odd one, I must say. I can’t be sure if you’re only partial or completely insane.”
“Outside this very pub is a lane so thick with muck that a man cannot walk without going ankle-deep in swill. Its stink reeks so foul that even the fog refuses to settle above it.”
She sighed with a bitter downturn of her mouth. “I think I know it. My place, right?”
“I am not finished. Do not interrupt when I am on a roll. If you stand out front of the lane and watch, you’ll see the refuse breathes. Its breath is little ghosts which rise and are consumed into the night. Hollows and Hells, girl, there are lads as young as five picking through the trash. Peeling each layer like a scab from a wound. Searching for a morsel. A bite. They brawl with dogs over scraps. They pounce on rats and would eat them raw if no fire can they find. I’ve seen them sleep on stairs. Under eaves. On rooftops. In drains. Drip drip. The city is a festering pile of shit, and they’re the worms. Blue bottle policeman march up and down the street hunting a killer. A killer with less to his tally than the white plague which crawls through the night and slays women in their sleep. Listen! Hear the coughing? The bleating? The moaning of the sick? The cries of those struck by the bony hand of Famine! They’ll die before dawn, they will. And only a few minutes walk from here, there’s a Lady dressed so prim and proper. Got not one hair out of place. Not one smudge upon her skin. Softest mittens you ever felt will warm her hands and she’s eating foreign lollies and sweet delights! She likes cakes and tea. She consorts with bankers and lawyers. She’s met earls, dukes, and bishops and they’ve all sought her hand. She swoons in delight but waits to catch the Prince’s eye. Dances until she’s tired. Her greatest challenge is the choice between black slippers or fawn. And here we sit. You and I. Surrounded by the drunk and the soon-to-be drunk. Wondering which of us is more insane than the other? Hoo hoo.” He grinned. Reached out and squeezed her cheek. “It’s you.”
She shook her head, marvelled by him. “I’ve got it now,” she said. “You’re a rich nobleman slumming it for inspiration to your dreadful poetry. I’m going to read all about your adventures in the sheets, ain’t I?”
“I’m sure you already have,” he said with a cackle. “Renfield of Whitechapel! A man of quick wit and unwasted words.”
She cheered with a laugh; “Renfield! Here’s to you, you sordid little man.”
She let him lead her outside after a few more drinks. Put an arm around his waist and nuzzled at his neck. The fresh sting of the cold night air pinched at his ears and nose. He pulled his hat down and grumbled; “Bloody cold.”
“Oh, I might warm you up, Sir Renfield,” she said. Voice high and shrill. “And I might not even charge you at all for it.”
“What? Freely given?” Renfield stiffened in shock. “Not at all, not at all. Sir Renfield pays his way. No, he won’t hear of it. Not at all. Buzzards and vice.”
“Don’t you be arguing with me,” she growled. “Or you can bloody well fuck off.”
“Arguing?” He blinked. “With a Lady? Not on your life!”
“That’s more like it!”
They stumbled down the road together, hands shifting positions often. His own finding softer flesh. Her giggles drew glances, but neither cared.
“I’ve had too many,” she said. “Look. The ground is moving. Can you see it?”
“I do,” he said. “It’s like walking on water. Look at me. I’m Jesus!”
“Oh, you shouldn’t say that, you wicked man.”
“Look out,” he cried. “A wave!”
He pulled her faster, skipping over an old drunk passed out in the middle of the street.
Her laughter kept him grinning. The warmth of her hand made him happy. Delighted, he abandoned himself to the delirium of their ramshackle dance.
And, when her voice suddenly spewed loose a tune of reeling glory, he lost himself to her entirely.
“Treat my daughter kindly, and say you’ll do no harm. And when I die, I’ll leave to you my little house and farm. My horse, my plough, my sheep, my cow, my hogs and little barn,” she sang, getting louder as she saw his stunned expression of awe. “And all those little chickens in the garden. I own and I love this darling girl, and dearly she loves me. I used to go around her home her smiling face to see. To watch her milk her father’s cows and admire her every charm. And many a drink of milk I got before I left the barn.”
They stopped in front of her house and he lifted shaking hands to cup her face.
“Fair Emma,” he said. Voice trembling. “My sweet red-haired beauty. You’ve a voice like an angel, you do. Sugar and lime. I’ll never rest until I have made you my own.”
“Oh, Renfield,” she said, eyes suddenly sad. “Don’t make promises you won’t want to keep tomorrow. Come inside, you strange man. Inside with you now.”
“Will you sing for me again, Emma? Sing another?”
“Of course.” She paused as she shut the door behind them. “Renfield, my name isn’t Emma. You probably know that. I tell everyone it’s Marie. But really, it’s Mary. Call me Mary, won’t you?”
“Mary,” he said. Like treacle sliding across his tongue.
He watched her walk toward the bed.
The beautiful sway of her backside.
The taut ribbon of her torso.
Beautiful hair cascading in lush red curls.
He followed her. Mesmerized and in a dream as she began to sing just for him in a voice which curled into his brain and made a passionate bed inside his mind; “Well I remember my dear old mother’s smile, as she used to greet me when I returned from toil. Always knitting in the old arm chair, Father used to sit and read-”
“-for all us children there,” he finished in a lilting tune that wormed into hers.
“Oh,” she cried. She turned and flung herself around him. Planted a kiss on his lips. “You know it! It’s my favourite, Renfield! No one has sung it to me before. Will you sing it for me? Sing it for me, Sir Renfield, and I’ll be yours forever.”
“Aye, Lady,” he said. His eyes bubbled and blurred as tears condensed his vision. Slowly drew the knife from his sleeve as he began to croon into her ear; “But now all is silent around the good old home. They all have left me in sorrow here to roam. But while life does remain, in memoriam I’ll retain this small violet I pluck’d from mother’s grave.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Marquess of Salisbury was seated in his chair in a manner only a lord could sit.
Calm.
Relaxed.
But there was to his posture an element of rigid predat
ory tension. As though he had begun fencing the moment Harker and Van Helsing entered the room.
Every offered courtesy was a strike of the rapier.
Every polite shake of his head a feint.
Every uttered word a probing thrust searching for weakness.
And when he smiled, Jonathan Harker felt a shiver down his spine. The man, he realised, had no soul. No heart. Empathy was merely a word. He was enigma to humanity. Adding to the mystery of his inner thoughts, Lord Salisbury’s beard seemed to clench around his lower face and hide all hint of his expression.
He spoke with a soft voice whose intonation rarely changed from a stately trot.
“You have to understand my position, Professor Van Helsing,” he said after listening to their tale. Although, in Abraham’s clipped language it was more a brief report than a story. Harker’s eyebrow also flinched as the lord called Abraham not by the more intimate Christian address, but by his more formal name. “The reports coming in from Inspector Abberline make for most compelling reading.”
“They’re false,” Abraham snapped. “Surely your Lordship can see this?”
“I would like to believe so. But it is not me you shall have to convince, is it? Inspector Abberline is highly respected, you know. A man not prone to exaggeration or colourful thinking. He’s a very studious man. I believe under normal circumstances, you would admire him.”
“But the stories are lies, sir,” Harker said. “Wicked lies. Which, given the creature we’re dealing with, is to be expected.”
“Is it?” Lord Salisbury kept his eyes on Abraham. “I’ve known you many years, Professor. In that time, I’ve seen a few specimens and none have struck me as particularly cunning. Feral, perhaps. But hardly possessing the mental capability for the subtle art of intrigue.”
“I have brought you only the most base of vampires,” Van Helsing said. “Those who were more powerful, I destroyed as soon as they were discovered. I could take no risk with them.”
“Yet, you clearly took a risk with this one. What was her name? Lucy?”
“Lucy Westenra.”
“Yes. You took great risks with her. What was so special about her, I wonder?”