Evolution Expects

by Jonathan Green

  “But that is not all the Jupiter Station will bring to this proud nation. We can look forward to picnics in the park on a balmy summer’s day, perfect growing seasons for our horticulturists, farmers and allotment owners, and even white Christmases again.”

  At this last comment a ripple of polite laughter passed through the crowd. Devlin Valentine had to admit that he was enjoying himself; the press conference was all he had hoped it would be, and it gave him the opportunity to shine, to present himself, once more, as the Saviour of the Magna Britannia.

  “And who do we have to thank for this opportunity to heal the wounds of the past, to put right the damage our forebears unwittingly caused this nation, in forging it into the greatest empire history has ever known? Just one man, ladies and gentlemen, one man. And that man is industrialist and philanthropist, Halcyon Beaufort-Monsoon.

  “And we are particularly fortunate today, ladies and gentlemen, for Mr Beaufort-Monsoon is here with us today.”

  Valentine gestured towards the side of the dais as, from behind a potted aspidistra, an old man in a wheelchair was rolled onto the stage by his nurse.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to present to you, Mr Halcyon Beaufort-Monsoon!”

  Devlin Valentine brought something of the circus showman to the role of Prime Minister. He was the P. T. Barnum of the world political stage, and it was a persona that had proved successful so far. He was, after all, Magna Britannia’s new great hope, younger than any of his recent predecessors, a man with passion and verve and energy.

  Valentine started the applause himself, clapping enthusiastically, while the rest of the room politely, though less-enthusiastically, followed suit.

  The old man was hunched within his chair, a rug pulled up over his legs, peering at the crowd myopically through thick, bottle-bottom lensed glasses, wearing a suit that seemed two sizes too big for him.

  His nurse, on the other hand, was a striking woman, attractive in a slightly severe way, her appearance made all the more sinister by the fact that she wore a red eye patch over her left eye with a white cross upon it, scars like the points of a pentacle emanating from underneath. Her luxuriant long hair, artificially coloured a deep-red, was bound into a bun on the back of her head. Her tight-fitting dress, tailored to the knee, was reminiscent of a nurse’s uniform, in that it was crisp and white, but the high collar and low-cut front, with the obligatory red cross across her ample bosom, were reminiscent of another style of dress altogether.

  A nurse like that to attend to your every whim, twenty-four hours a day, would almost be worth getting old for, Valentine thought.

  He realised that he was staring when the nurse glared at him with her one remaining, heavily mascaraed eye. He immediately felt uncomfortable and looked away, swallowing sharply and feeling his cheeks flush. He was suddenly reminded of the old adage: be careful what you wish for.

  Flustered for a moment, the Prime Minister turned back to the press conference. “Halcyon Beaufort-Monsoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he repeated, unnecessarily.

  The applause continued for half a minute more, the old man smiling weakly at the crowd and waving one liver-spotted hand at the gathered journalists and interested others.

  “As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, Mr Beaufort-Monsoon is a little infirm and has asked that I speak to you today on his behalf. He, like me, wants to give something back to the city and, by extension, the empire that has given him so much. And his gift to this nation is the Jupiter Station.

  “I see this as the beginning of a new era for our magnificent empire, one in which we shall learn from the lessons of the past and work together in the present to change our ways and build a better and brighter future for Magna Britannia and the rest of the world.”

  Valentine paused again to let his words sink in, to savour the grandiose triumph of the speech.

  “Thank you very much,” he said at last. “I will now take a few questions from the floor.”

  HINDSIGHT WAS A wonderful thing, Devlin Valentine considered after the press conference had finished. In hindsight, things had been going swimmingly up until he asked for questions from the floor. With hindsight he should have ended things without giving the ladies and gentlemen of the press a chance to throw in their two pennies’ worth.

  Some of the questions had been just the sort of thing he would have expected.

  “Is it true that we can expect to see your name in the New Year honours list, Mr Beaufort-Monsoon?”

  “This is undoubtedly a remarkable scientific and technological achievement, Prime Minister. How does it feel to be involved with such a momentous project?”

  “After the Jupiter project, what’s next on your agenda?”

  But then, as the novelty of the Jupiter Station’s official unveiling began to wear off, some of the reporters grew more confident and the questions became trickier.

  “Is it only London that is going to enjoy these new health benefits you speak of when civic leaders up and down the country are crying out for the means to rid their cities of pollution that is also the consequence of decades of rapacious industrialisation?”

  “Lucy Gudrun, Oxford Echo. You say the launch of the Jupiter Station will lead to a new era of prosperity and better living conditions, but aren’t you just passing London’s problems on to someone else?”

  “Isn’t this just dealing with the symptoms of pollution and not the cause? Do you know what effect changing the weather over London might have on the rest of the country’s weather patterns or even in the wider world beyond?”

  “Isn’t this just another publicity stunt performed by a London-centric government, happy to let others do all the work and take all the suffering?”

  This had prompted Valentine’s own biting response.

  “I am well aware of the fact that London is only one city but it is the capital city and the one which had been most blighted by the industrial boom and, more recently, the race for space.”

  He was suddenly aware of all the cameras trained on him, including those of the MBBC. This was his big moment, when he would address the nation. Later that day, the highlights of this press conference would be broadcast along with the rest of the day’s news, although whatever that was destined to be would pale into insignificance compared to his moment of rhetorical triumph.

  “In fact we are so confident of the success of the Jupiter Station that as soon as the final preparations have been completed at our hangar on Hampstead Heath, the construction of another three platforms will begin, these bound for Birmingham, Newcastle and Manchester. Now ladies and gentlemen, if you will excuse me?”

  “Prime Minister!”

  “No, no more questions now, thank you.”

  “But Prime Minister –”

  “Thank you, but that will be all. You will appreciate that there is much still to be done and that our great nation does not run itself, so, if you will excuse me...”

  And with that, Prime Minister Devlin Valentine left the stage, followed by a procession of aides and bodyguards, as well as the old man and his nurse.

  “IT’S BEEN A genuine pleasure, not to say an honour to meet you at last,” Valentine said, taking the old man’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “Really it is. And I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I am... that you have seen fit to donate this magnificent Weather Machine of yours to our cause. I can assure you that you will not be forgotten when it comes to drawing up the next honours list. How do you like the sound of Sir Halcyon Beaufort-Monsoon?”

  “Enough of the histrionics, Valentine,” the old man said sharply, cutting him off in mid-flow.

  “Oh,” the Prime Minister said, somewhat wrong-footed by the old man’s response. “But I meant every word.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you did.”

  “I was only being sincere –”

  “That was a bold move, wasn’t it?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Valentine said, suddenly unsure of himself.

  “Saying th
at you’ll be rolling out the Jupiter Station programme to those other cities.”

  “As I said in there, if the Jupiter Station proves to be a success –”

  “Which it will.”

  “– then I fully intend that we go into production with another three.”

  “And who’ll be paying for those?”

  “The taxpayer, naturally. It shouldn’t be a problem, should it? I would have thought that you would be glad of the investment in your company after making such a public gift.”

  “Like I said, a bold move. Some might go so far as to say... rash.”

  “But you’re forgetting the old adage, ‘fortune favours the bold’.”

  “And you’re forgetting the saying ‘act in haste and repent at your leisure’.”

  “This is an issue that I am fully committed to,” Valentine said earnestly. “I am determined to heal the ills of our society and I plan to start with London and then look to what needs to be done elsewhere.”

  “But some areas are beyond saving. Take Seven Dials for example,” Beaufort-Monsoon said with a callous smile.

  “Then we must choose our battles wisely.”

  “You are an ambitious man, Valentine. Let us hope that your ambition does not turn to hubris.”

  Devlin Valentine wasn’t usually the kind of man to be lost for words, but at that moment he was. He didn’t know how to respond to the old man’s warning. Was Beaufort-Monsoon merely giving him the benefit of his wisdom, the accumulation of age, or had it been something altogether more sinister. Valentine couldn’t shake the feeling that it had almost sounded like a threat.

  Not knowing how to respond to the old man’s words, he didn’t.

  “Just assure me that the Jupiter Station will be ready for Launch Day.”

  “Oh, do not worry, Prime Minister. You’ll have your moment of glory. You will have your... ascension day.”

  And with that, the old man’s nurse turned his chair and wheeled Halcyon Beaufort-Monsoon away, leaving Devlin Valentine feeling skin-crawlingly uncomfortable, wondering what manner of deal he had made.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bedlam

  LYING IN BED beside the girl, his dressing gown wrapped around him loosely, his chin resting on the black leather that hid his incongruous chimpanzee’s hand, Ulysses Quicksilver stared at her, a relaxed smile on his face. He had been awake for a good ten minutes and had spent most of that time watching Eliza as she slept.

  He certainly hadn’t been expecting this when he had returned home, filthy and bedraggled after his adventures on the streets of the East End. And he certainly hadn’t expected it for a tense moment as he rose from his bath for her to discover that his left arm was not all it should be. She had given a startled gasp and taken a step back as she took in the alien limb.

  But then to give her her due, she had soon got over the shock and had drawn close to him again, shaking off her own clothes, her hands continuing to caress his body, finding him responsive to her ample charms.

  Ulysses supposed that she had seen all sorts of things in her line of work, and had to deal with all manner of strange requests, even perversions, from all manner of obese and aging clients. With so handsome a man in his mid to late thirties with a toned body, even if he did have one rather peculiar arm, his good points outweighed the bad.

  But then, reminded of his malformity, Ulysses had felt uncomfortable and unappealing. It had been Eliza who suggested he cover it up again, and so he had donned the gown, even going so far as to pull on the glove over his left hand.

  From that point on, as soon as the primate’s hand was covered up, he had relaxed, easing himself back into the moment. Besides, it had turned out that Eliza had thrilled to the feel of the leather stroking her skin.

  He combed his other hand through the sweep of his hair, mercifully clean now after the bath he had enjoyed – in more ways than one – the night before.

  Once again her took in the shapely mound the girl’s buttocks gave to the sheet partially draped over her, the small of her back, the crease in the taut skin of her back following the line of her spine up her shoulders, along her slender arms and down to the subtle suggestion of the swell of her breasts beneath her. He savoured the delicate line of her swan-like neck, the fall of her dark hair across her back and the wonderful coffee-coloured pigment of her skin.

  Eliza stretched and turned to face him but her eyes remained closed.

  His smile turning into a devilish grin, he sat up suddenly, the sheet falling from him. Pulling it from Eliza as well, exposing her perfectly formed bottom, he gave the sleeping prostitute’s rump a playful slap.

  “Come on, old girl!” Ulysses announced, jumping out of bed, “up and at ’em!”

  The whore opened bleary eyes and grunted something incomprehensible.

  “Wakey wakey, rise and shine!”

  The girl stretched again and made a small, soft sound like a little moan of pleasure.

  “What time is it?” she mumbled, still without opening her eyes.

  “Eleven o’clock, or thereabouts.”

  Eliza’s eyes snapped open. “Eleven? You’re kidding me!”

  “No, I’m not. Don’t forget we went to bed late, and got to sleep even later,” he grinned again, flashing the girl his pearly whites. “You were obviously tired.”

  “Oh, you know,” she said, closing her eyes again. “Run off my feet all day, I was.”

  “Off your feet all day, eh? I can well imagine, Eliza Do-Alot.”

  “I mean, chasing after dandy ne’er-do-wells like you, Mr Lah-di-dah,” she countered, blinking drowsily.

  “Come on, there’s no time for sleeping now.”

  “Oh yes?” Eliza said suddenly coquettish, sliding a hand under Ulysses’ gown. “Feeling frisky, are we?”

  “No, no time for that either,” Ulysses said, swinging himself out of bed and away from the whore’s caresses before circumstances beyond his control changed his mind. “But maybe later.”

  “So what’s the big hurry?”

  “We’re going out,” Ulysses said, striding across the bedroom to the walk-in wardrobe on the other side.

  “Out? Where?” Eliza called after him, rolling onto her side, the dark nipples of her breasts stiffening as they were exposed to the air.

  “If I were to tell you, that would spoil the surprise.” Ulysses popped his head round the door of the wardrobe, unable to wipe the schoolboy grin off his face as he savoured the sight of her pert, young breasts. “Now tell me, my dear. Have you ever ridden in a Rolls Royce?”

  ULYSSES OPENED THE car door and climbed out, offering Eliza a hand and helping the young prostitute out of the Silver Phantom after him. “Thank you, Nimrod,” he said, poking his head back inside the car. “You coming in, old chap?”

  “I won’t, if you don’t mind,” his manservant replied, regarding Ulysses through the rear view mirror. He hadn’t said a word the whole way there, as they drove from Mayfair to Southwark.

  “Suit yourself. Wait here then.” Ulysses sighed as he closed the door.

  He knew Nimrod didn’t approve of his new lady friend, but then he never really approved of any woman Ulysses got to know on an intimate level. Eliza was a step too far, as far as the faithful family retainer was concerned.

  Ulysses paused, looking up at the classical facade of the hospital, with its pillared entrance and domed cupola roof.

  “So, what is this place?” his companion asked him, in her oh-so-blunt and to the point way.

  “This, my dear ’Liza, is Bethlehem Royal Hospital for the mentally deranged.”

  “You must be bloody joking! You’ve brought me to Bedlam? What is this, are you going to have me locked up or something?”

  Eliza began to shuffle away from Ulysses.

  “What for? Moral insanity?”

  Eliza looked at him aghast. “You’re not getting me in there, I’ll tell you that for nothing!”

  “But aren’t you even a little bit curious?”


  “What? What do you mean?” Eliza pouted, watching him warily now.

  “Aren’t you at all interested in the meaning of the message you so graciously passed on to me, last night? ‘The bugger went to Bethlehem’?”

  “None of my business, is it? It wasn’t for me was it?”

  “You don’t fool me,” Ulysses grinned. “You’re an intelligent girl, I can see that. I can see it in your eyes. Part of you can’t wait to get through those gates and have a look inside.”

  Eliza’s expression of wary apprehension didn’t waver but she did dare a glance at the facade of the hospital.

  “Looks like a palace,” she said distantly.

  Ulysses looked again at the structure that lay beyond the wrought iron gates, so like the British Museum in design – but then the two buildings were both the work of the architect brothers Sydney and Robert Smirke.

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose it does.”

  He turned to watch Eliza’s confused reaction to the palatial lunatic asylum as she tried to resolve in her mind how such a magnificent building could be so synonymous with Hell.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” she agreed grudgingly. “I’m just finding it hard to imagine how such a wonderful building can be the home of madmen.” She turned from her study of the hospital to return Ulysses’ gaze and smiled coquettishly again. “But then all those other magnificent London buildings, like the Houses of Parliament, are full of madmen too, aren’t they?”

  Ulysses couldn’t suppress his laughter. “Yes, I suppose they are. Yes indeed.”

  He offered her his arm.

  “Shall we, my dear Eliza?”

  She hesitated for only a second. “Yes, why not, Ulysses,” she said, affecting an upper class accent.

  And arm-in-arm they admitted themselves to the hospital grounds.

  BEDLAM; WELL IT deserved that name.

  From as early as the fourteenth century there had been a Bethlehem Hospital. This first incarnation of one of London’s grimmest institutions lay outside the city walls as Bishopsgate, where Liverpool Street Station stood now. Its remit was to care for ‘distracted’ patients, as the insane had been euphemistically described at the time, and although it bore the name ‘hospital’, it was little better than a prison. Those same ‘distracted’ patients were kept under lock and key, supposedly to keep them out of harm’s way. But the truth of the matter was that they were detained there to keep them out of the way of all right-minded people. If the inmates made a nuisance of themselves – which, being mentally ill and denied their freedom, many of them invariably did – they were whipped or even ducked, in an effort to teach them a lesson, that many were incapable of ever learning.