Call Me Ismay

by Sean McDevitt

  Langston had been puzzling all morning over the ship's name. The most obvious connection he could make concerned the ship's impossibly large size. Clearly, the White Star Line was invoking those huge beings of incredible strength within Greek mythology by using the word 'Titan' within the vessel's full name, Titanic. However, his writer's mind, despite an incomplete time at university, couldn't help but be amused that Titan was also the name of Saturn's largest moon, a celestial object so immense in size and yet invisible to the naked eye. It seemed to him that this 'Titan' made everything else in its proximity invisible. The Titanic had without question declared its dominance of the Southampton port not only with its grandeur but its apparent insatiable appetite for coal. Nearly every other ship in the vicinity, and their numbers constituted a fair sized armada, were tied to their moorings and largely abandoned. The national coal miner's strike, which had been settled only days before, meant that the White Star Line had to scramble its resources in order to feed the Titanic's hungry belly, even if that meant purchasing every coal stash in sight and leaving all other ships to sail another day. Langston continually caught himself with his mouth agape, feeling foolish at his naked astonishment. He watched a seemingly endless procession of crew members and passengers boarding the ship by gangways and huge electric cranes lifting tons of luggage and supplies, all of it headed to America.

  Langston had more than a bit of trepidation in travelling to the United States- until this day, his own travelling experiences were limited entirely to within the United Kingdom. As a British observer, Langston found himself confused over how a republic could refer to itself as the United States, when most of the news that came over indicated a wild landscape of assassinations, lynchings, rioting, crime. Of course, Langston had also been aware of other things that weren't attached to the American Dream in the form of nightmares. Many a friend or relative had waxed eloquently over its vast and inspiring geography, its generosity of spirit, and particularly of the adventure and opportunities that were to be found in the Western part of the country. A few states, such as California and Utah, were both described as a “Second Eden.” Langston pictured himself on the decks of the ship above, beholding the Statue of Liberty as it appeared through mists of fog as the Titanic approached New York.

  Langston wondered- foolishly, he knew- if Lillith might be at his side as the American coastline approached. He realized it was highly unlikely, as he watched a team of doctors examining his fellow steerage passengers in precisely the same fashion that a farmer would treat a horse. She'll be at Lyons's heel, who certainly could not possibly be carrying any type of contagious infection as a well-to-do first class passenger, Langston thought to himself bitterly. If these doctors only knew.

  He had taken an enormous risk in attempting to shadow Lyons across the Atlantic. He had taken her words of caution to leave London immediately quite literally. He had abandoned his work at the Chronicle, never appearing at the offices again, and left the keys to his flat on Brathway Road at his landlady's door, sealed up in an envelope and without explanation. In a sack he had gathered some clothes, his diary, his last letter from Lillith and- buried deep in his belongings- the ominous vampire kit. Before leaving, he did not take an opportunity to scrape off the candle wax he had left on the table, the hardened blob of red that formed the letter “G”, fancying it as a rebellious statement. Whom exactly it was meant for, he could not say. Perhaps he left it behind for Stanley Johns to find, except that he had not heard from the young man since their meeting with Lillith.

  Stanley had stalked off in anger that day, and Langston had presumed he might have proceeded to betray him as a loon to the editors of the Chronicle. Then again, what could Stanley have said that was truly damaging, other than he had apparently accepted a boarding pass from a somewhat peculiar chambermaid? He regretted not forwarding a note to Stanley at the Chronicle, inquiring as to his whereabouts or perhaps beseeching a bit of forgiveness, but Lillith's insistence that Langston leave London resonated with him in a way that was unshakable. He had spent more than a month as a sort of highwayman while headed to Southampton, keeping his scruples intact by paying to borrow horses rather than stealing them. He had also offered to carry out menial odd jobs along the way in hopes of scraping a few shillings together that might be enough to allow for a brief bit of travel by railway.

  It was on that final stretch of travel by train to Southampton when Langston decided it was time to review the letter Lillith had handed to him at their last meeting- the missive she had described as “especially vague.” At first, Langston felt waves of anger, hurt and confusion as he pored over her message. Perhaps it was possible that the ravings of a beautiful, well-meaning lunatic had forced him to forgo all reason. However, he reminded himself of the fleeting glimpse she had given him of her dire condition, and he gradually came to believe he knew what she was saying, that it was sincere, and that it was a heavily coded declaration of action:

  •

  • Darling, I know you don't need more to convince you.

  •

  • But I want you to understand the following...

  •

  • Lions would have me as Madam.

  •

  • I (have) live,

  • deliver;

  • Peek I U 2, (Love!)

  • (But) Raw Sexes Sees (Lions!)

  • Live was I, saw I -Madam. (Lillith)

  •

  Pure gibberish, Langston had muttered to himself the first time he read it, his eyes starting to water in despair as he stared out the train's window into the open country, an endless display of fields and woods and hedgerows rushing past him. He knew, of course what he had seen- those horrifying fangs in her mouth had given him an odd sense of badly needed validation- but he also quickly reminded himself Lillith had been masterful at wordplay from the beginning, taking heart in remembering that “bare your tools” in one of her earlier letters did not include a misspelling as he had discovered in locating the vampire kit. Indeed, as the words in cursive burned their way into his eyes to the point he could literally still see them if he looked away, he realized there truly was another way of reading them: in reverse, taking into account the words in parenthesis were not to be read backward. Taking pencil in hand, he furiously notated each line.

  Live was I, saw I -Madam became Madam I was, I saw evil.

  Lillith has described herself as a Madam working for Lyons, and she hates it, he scribbled.

  Raw Sexes Sees (Lions!) could be reversed into Lions sees sexes war.

  'Lions' is actually 'Lyons,' and she described suffrage as almost a 'war' between the sexes.

  • Peek I U 2, (Love!) (But) fell into place as “But love to you I keep.”

  •

  • She is breaking allegiance to him and saying it's me that she loves!

  • I (have) live, deliver; was clearly Reviled evil have I.

  •

  • She is renouncing vampirism; in her heart she already has!

  Tears had come flooding in a release of both sadness and joy that day on the train, and as he stood at the dock at Southampton, he felt them running down his cheeks once more, forcing the momentary removal of his glasses. His knowledge of unspeakable evil was a burden that he had never asked for, and yet for the first time Kerry Langston found himself grateful to be the one to shoulder it, as he readied himself to board the greatest ship he had ever seen.

  *********

  The White Star Line Boat Train was hustling through the countryside, making its eighty-mile run from Waterloo Station near London to Southampton. As it steamed its way through vast belts of woodland, Edward Lyons and Bartholomew Gidley murmured their thoughts and visions of an empire to be centered in the American desert- with themselves as leaders, at least as under the terms that they had determined to be their destiny under the guidelines of the Argued Prophecy. Left behind in London by Edward Lyons was a curt missive dispatched to the King, applying for the post of Stewart of the Chiltern Hundreds,
a sinecure appointment that would allow him to resign his seat in the House of Commons.

  They'd been sequestered quite comfortably in their own private compartment, with its posh upholstery of dark blue broadcloth and golden braid, leaving Lillith and a valet named Marcus to fend for themselves and contend with their master's luggage on another far less luxurious part of the train. The two men held in their hands a sizable map of their planned destination- Bingham, Utah, a mining town six miles long and sixty feet wide. Langston had already made inroads in flexing his power to command a part of the town by securing Greek and Italian cattlemen for hire- and he'd accomplished it without ever having set foot in America. An advance team of political operatives, actually a British trio of two barristers and a solicitor, eager to take advantage of a quail hunt the previous autumn, had been using their talents to cajole immigrants in the backrooms of many a tavern.

  Lyons and Gidley had been chatting constantly about their plans, and while they did not necessarily consider themselves as authorities on the stark geographic realities of the American West, they had no problem with self-election as the sole determiners of the division of what they considered their rightful property: women. At times the discussion became heated, with Lyons firmly reminding Gidley of his place in the yet-to-be established republic. At no point, despite his open voluptuousness on the matter, was Gidley to even think of laying a lecherous hand on Lillith- that was an act reserved for Lyons alone. “Split-tails!” Gidley had spat out poisonously quite a few times, while Lyons was content with the word “concubines.” Consanguinity was also a source of unlimited debate, as it had been for decades. Within Lyons's realm, there were profound disagreements over exactly what effect that prolonged or repeated feedings had over what could eventually be considered to be blood relations. Gidley had ambitiously suggested that numerous mutual feedings between Lyons and Lillith had left their blood so mingled as to render the relationship something akin to incestuous. Therefore, he, a non-relative, should rightfully take over where Lillith was concerned. Lyons stopped short of physical violence in reacting to Gidley's claims, did make frequent references to the lack of compunction he would have in sending Gidley's reanimated remains back to the crypt at the Parish Church of All Saints, Winkleigh.

  At least one of Bartholomew Gidley's incarnations had been hiding in plain sight, so to speak, by being buried- briefly- in a place of worship dedicated to Thomas Becket. It was believed Lyons and Gidley shared an inconceivably long, off-again and on-again and bloody history together, and some within the world of dark arts whispered in private that it included the spreading of blood and brains on the pavement at Canterbury Cathedral while posing as knights in the act of an unholy murder. Lyons and Gidley did very little to dispel these rumors, as they added immeasurably to their vampirical mystique- and the legend of bloody or Red Knights was to loom large within the occult. However, their lives as mere mortals were all in most likelihood led in the not-quite-so-distant past.

  Gidley had cruelly informed Lillith of his most recent act of violence shortly before they had boarded the Boat Train that morning. “Dispatched that lad from the newspaper at the cemetery, We have,” Gidley had sneered at her, when she had boldly raised the possibility that the London Daily Chronicle might report very soon on Lyons's true intentions as he fled- not traveled- to America.

  She had proceeded with her duties in a misty-eyed fog, gathering the men's luggage on a platform at Waterloo Station in London as the clueless valet Marcus bumbled about, unsure of what to make of a chambermaid that suddenly seemed distracted and sullen. She was consumed with guilt, wondering why Gidley and Lyons had apparently gone to Wandsworth after all and not to Putney Vale. As she continued to blame herself as she tried lifting case after heavy case, she realized that she'd underestimated her employer once more- he was never one to leave a loose thread dangling, especially when it came to obfuscating his true self. On a decidedly ominous note, however, she recalled that, a few hours after she had last seen Langston and was back at work folding linen at the Lyons household, a faint ringing in her ears had stopped her momentarily from her work. Whenever a vampire performed an “unclean” killing- meaning that blood intended for their fangs had managed to spill onto their victim's body- the dark lineage of any other vampires in the vicinity would hear a high pitched whine in their ears, and its volume would depend on the vampire's proximity to the location. It was an unwritten law that any vampire, when aware of such a sound, would drop whatever he or she was doing and head immediately for the location of the supernatural alarm, because it meant a vampire was dangerously close to compromising their cover (the perpetrator of such an attack never heard it themselves) and they likely needed assistance in order to maintain it. When Lillith heard the faint noise that afternoon, she had immediately thought of Gidley, wondering if yet again he'd gone off the expected path by indulging in one of his many “blood credit” exploits. The alarm was something she had decided to ignore long ago, and she'd dismissed it that day as well. Now, tears flowed down her cheeks and onto her neck, slowly sliding down in a way that she believed had to resemble poor Kerry Langston's blood leaving his defenseless body.

  While Lyons and Gidley continued their wide-ranging discussion, most of it probably incomprehensible to anyone who might overhear them, Sgt. Robert Wade, City of London Police, was not so concerned as to the subject of their conversation as he was to their location. Sgt. Wade, who had boarded the Boat Train at Waterloo Station, had quietly been confirming that they had not ventured away from their First Class coach and was prepared to take action either on board the train, or perhaps after they had finally drawn up alongside the quay.

  The Police Sergeant had been working in solitude for more than a month, ever since the remains of a young man had been discovered by two gravediggers at Putney Vale Cemetery. In a macabre twist, men who made their living preparing holes in the ground for the dead had been completely unnerved by what they had seen. The slightly decomposed body of a young man, still clutching his flat cap in his rigid hand, and with severe injuries to his head and neck had been left directly up against a brick wall in the Garden of Remembrance.

  While carefully examining the area, Wade had found a single bloody glove in a dark patch behind a crypt about forty yards away from where the victim had been found. In a fortuitous bit of luck, the glove appeared to have been monogrammed with the initials B.G. Wade was able to determine that Dents was most likely the glove's manufacturer, and, with a bit of footwork, had further discovered the style of the glove was available only at Selfridge's on Oxford Street. With time and patience, Wade had managed to scour the seamstress's work register, and discovered that on January 3rd, 1912, a Mr. B. Gidley of 28 Fife Street, London had placed an order for his gloves to be monogrammed, and had picked them up five days later. A swift visit by Sgt. Wade to that address had led to a somewhat curious dead end- it was the location of an establishment owned by a milliner and draper. Further questioning of other proprietors in the area had revealed the existence of a Bartholomew Gidley, solicitor and current Parliamentary Private Secretary for the MP of East Surrey.

  Sgt. Wade had blanched slightly upon learning the identity of his potential suspect. He fully realized he must proceed with great caution and discretion because of the political ramifications, and it was for this reason that the detective had gone forward with his investigation in the role of lone wolf. Wade, well over six feet in height, possessed with a seemingly calm demeanor, was a striking figure of authority with a staid expression and relaxed hazel eyes that never missed the most minute of details. He had monitored the two men from a distance, carefully assembling a case while taking into account Gidley's possible legal rejoinders, but, when he realized they were boarding a train headed for Southampton that April morning, his suspicions were greatly aroused. He had boarded the train at Waterloo Station himself, casting aside a porter's request for ticket presentation with a gruff and efficient “police business” utterance.

  Sgt. Wad
e was carrying handcuffs and a newly issued Webley semi-automatic; the police had just very recently ditched the bulldog revolvers that they had been using in the aftermath of the Siege of Sidney Street, where the authorities had found themselves severely outgunned by a gang of burglars. The weapon was so new to him that he had barely had time for target practice, but the sergeant wasn't so much eager to use his new gun as he was to simply question Gidley. Why had a glove that bore his initials been found so close to the remains of a dead body? Wade was also compelled to find out why the young man had died in such a violent and bizarre fashion. While it was almost certain to most of those close to the investigation that the victim- who had apparently been employed at a London newspaper- had died instantly from a blow to the head administered by a bloodied brick found right next to the glove, no one could determine why or how the victim had what appeared to be three sets of wounds on his neck. The injuries were almost perfectly shaped little punctures, six little round holes that seemed to come from three separate attacks, each of them with the same measure of separation between two distinct wounds. Wade thought they looked so clearly defined they could have been made by a portable electric hand drill, but he realized that a power cord only allowed for very limited portability, and certainly there would have been no way to utilize such a tool in the cemetery. He also knew that- logically- a drill would actually have left a jagged mess on the victim's neck, and these wounds were in their own unique way clean and precise. It was a form of injury that neither he or his colleagues had ever seen.