The Claws of Evil

by Andrew Beasley

Ruby nodded again.

  In truth, Ben didn’t know how he felt about the Under. All these tunnels, all these secrets. The size and scope of this hidden world, the ingenuity which created and maintained it, the fact that it even existed, were all incredible. He also liked the idea that you could get a second chance. London was a harsh place and he had known lots of good people fall down through no fault of their own and never gain their feet again.

  Lost your job? Bad luck. Got sick? Bad luck. Can’t pay the rent? Feed the kids? Clothe your wife? So sorry, old boy, bad luck. It pleased Ben to imagine that there was a safety net below the city, waiting to catch those who fell.

  Yet for all those positives, there was something about the Under that put him on guard. There was a hot taste of menace in the air. Like embers blown over a field of dry wheat; it would take nothing for the whole place to go up. Yes, they were free from the harsh injustices of the law down here, but they were also free from the law’s protection.

  Ben saw the homeless – dry, safe, and out of the cold – and he was pleased for them. Babes snuggled in their mothers’ arms, families facing a new future together, holding tight after the storm. But, he also saw faces full of anger and resentment, bitter with the world for reducing them to this. Army deserters stood side by side with disgraced noblemen, swindlers, cheats and thieves. There were faces here that he recognized from the docks, faces of fighters and drinkers. He saw the face of a murderer, a perfect likeness of his Wanted poster. Hard faces with angry eyes. And not one of them repentant.

  No law, so no one to judge them.

  No law here but that which they made for themselves.

  Finally Ruby brought him to a door, and almost roughly pushed him towards it.

  “Where am I?” asked Ben.

  “You’ll see,” she said curtly. “Wait here.” Then she turned on her heel and walked away.

  Thank you, Ruby, Ben thought angrily. Thank you very much.

  It was a strong door. Solid, and somehow intimidating. But Benjamin was not afraid. He was bristling with anger. And he was quite enjoying it. It was the clearest emotion he had felt in a long time.

  Ruby had left him, and he could either stand there like a lemon waiting for her, or he could take matters into his own hands. Without hesitation he took the handle and began to turn it. He wanted to see what was on the other side of the door.

  He opened it slowly, to be on the safe side, and was rather disappointed by what he found. At first glance, this room didn’t appear to be that different from any other he had seen in the Under. There was a stout table with playing cards scattered across it, the remains of a roast chicken, a number of battered chairs, a few personal belongings and not much else. He stepped inside; he could at least sit down until Ruby deigned to return for him.

  At the far end of the room was a fireplace, but the fire had died down and so the only light came from a metal sconce on the low ceiling, the candles flickering wildly. He dragged a chair over to the fire and began to rake at the embers with a poker.

  It was only then that he thought twice about the thick, dark curtains that hung the length of both walls. Ben looked at them with a growing sense of dread. One of the curtains twitched and he knew that it could only mean one thing.

  He was not alone.

  All around him the filthy fabric was being drawn aside to reveal the dwellers of the Under, stacked on top of each other like bodies in a tomb. Bodies that were stirring, rising from their sleep.

  Something deep inside Ben warned him that he could be in for a rough ride here and so he rolled up his sleeves and braced himself. He had no idea how many opponents he might have to deal with, but he vowed to live long enough to tell Ruby Johnson exactly what he thought of her for getting him into this mess.

  One by one the figures swung their legs over the edge of their bunks. Ben counted them in the dim light; two on his left, three on his right. The odds could have been much worse, but unless they were going to challenge him to a game of whist, he knew that he was probably in for a bit of a pasting.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw to his relief that he was facing the sort of boys that he bumped up against all the time on Old Gravel Lane. He had been half expecting to find himself up against ex-soldiers discharged from Her Majesty’s service for conduct unbecoming. However, all the lads were hanging back for some reason, and Ben got the feeling that they were waiting for the last member of their group, still hidden behind the remaining curtain.

  The figure that finally emerged was tall and angular; all bones and sharp corners. Like the other residents of the room, he wasn’t much older than Ben, although his lanky height gave him added years. His hair was a sharp white-blond and hung in loose natural curls that were almost feminine. His eyes, even in the candlelight, were the fiercest blue. He looked like an angel.

  No, Ben corrected himself as those blue eyes locked on him with disdain; he looked like a fallen angel, full to overflowing with resentment and pride.

  “So what have we here, then?” said the young man in an educated voice, which instantly set Ben’s hackles rising.

  “An intruder, Captain,” said one of the boys.

  Captain? thought Ben. How la-di-da. “No, a guest,” he said out loud. “Ruby Johnson brought me.”

  “Well,” declared the captain, “since our very own Miss Ruby invited you here...” The whole room waited on his pronouncement. “...it would be terribly rude for us not to make our guest feel at home.

  “First, some introductions.” He swept his long bony arm around the room in an extravagant display of welcome. “This gentleman is my personal squire, Jimmy Dips, and these other fine fellows are John Bedlam, Hans Schulman and the esteemed Alexander Valentine, all knights of the Legion.” At this point, a hunchbacked boy struggled up from his bunk and shuffled towards the remains of the fire, a crippled bulldog hopping along beside him. “Not forgetting our unfortunate friend,” the captain continued. “This is squire Munro, and his three-legged companion is Buster.

  “And I,” he said, with a long-fingered hand splayed decorously on his own chest, “am the Honourable Lord Rupert Mickelwhite, Captain of the Legion and third Duke of Gloucester. You may call me ‘My Lord’, or possibly ‘sir’ if you get to know me better.”

  “Take no notice of his nibs,” said John Bedlam, a small lad, shorter than Ben but with a stocky build and a cocky manner. He sauntered over and took Ben’s hand, squeezing it firmly, almost too hard, as if testing to see whether Ben would wince. Ben didn’t. Bedlam returned to his bunk.

  “We are pleased to make your acquaintance.” It was Schulman’s turn to speak and his accent betrayed his German heritage. Schulman struck an imposing figure, tall and broad, with the build of a blacksmith and long fair hair that hung around his face like a mane. Schulman slapped Ben heartily on the back with enough force to make him take an involuntary step forwards. The German laughed then, but it was not an unfriendly sound.

  Munro and Buster had repositioned themselves so as to make the best of the dying embers in the grate. One of them broke wind thunderously, although Ben wasn’t sure whether it was the crookback or his dog. Jimmy Dips, meanwhile, had moved across the barracks to stand obediently at Captain Mickelwhite’s side. Jimmy had a twitchy rat-like face and a slightly oily manner, almost too eager to please.

  “Forgive me if I don’t get up,” said Alexander Valentine, still sprawled on his bunk. The boy had a pale, thin face, with tight lips and cheekbones that stood out harshly beneath stretched skin. The hand that emerged from beneath the blanket to give a regal wave was almost skeletal. Was this some distant relation of the mysterious Alasdair Valentine? Ben wondered.

  On the whole, Ben didn’t consider them to be a bad group of lads. He gave one and all the benefit of his broadest grin, tipped a finger to his hat as a salute and to take a sneaky check to make sure that t
he Coin was still safe and sound, and then extended the hand of friendship towards Mickelwhite. He was a toffee-nosed git, Ben thought, but he might be alright underneath.

  “The name’s Benjamin Kingdom,” he said, still grinning.

  Mickelwhite took Ben’s hand in a cold clammy grasp and then, without warning, twisted round and wrenched Ben’s hand up vigorously behind his back. Ben bent double in pain.

  “You forgot to say ‘My Lord’,” Mickelwhite hissed in Ben’s ear.

  Ben knew that gangs had their initiation ceremonies and so he took the assault as a good sign, although he wasn’t enjoying having his arm twisted so far up his back that he could easily believe it might snap. The Old Gravel Lane boys had a similar ritual, which involved a fair amount of fighting and then the most sacred part of the investiture: the ceremonial stealing of a pork pie. Ben was waiting for the pain to start easing up and the laughter to begin. His eyes began to water. Any time now, lads.

  Mickelwhite brought his face level with Ben’s. “Come on, boy,” he hissed. “You’re in the presence of your superiors: on your knees.”

  This was clearly part of the test and, determined not to be found wanting, Ben resisted with all his strength. “Never,” he replied.

  Someone behind him – John Bedlam, Ben guessed – kicked him in the crook of his legs, which buckled painfully beneath him.

  “Ease up,” said Ben, as light-heartedly as he could manage. “Let’s just be mates.”

  “Let’s just be mates, My Lord.”

  A knee found his belly and left him gasping. Clearly some gangs have stricter rules than others, he thought, but he kept his lips firmly buttoned. A fist hammered into the small of his back. A booted foot dragged down his shins.

  “So this is the famous Ben Kingdom,” said Mickelwhite mockingly. “I was expecting someone far more impressive than you!”

  Of course Ben could have stopped them easily by simply grovelling like Mickelwhite wanted him to. The problem was that Ben wasn’t about to start bowing and scraping to anyone.

  An arm clenched around his throat and began to squeeze. Ben’s ears filled with the sound of his own blood roaring. That made Ben smile even as his face turned blue. Mickelwhite wasn’t as clever as he thought he was; Ben wouldn’t be able to call anybody “My Lord” with a crushed windpipe, would he? It was only a small consolation however, because he would be unconscious in a couple of seconds. Or possibly dead.

  All at once, Mickelwhite released him and all the boys stepped backwards, leaving Ben gasping on the floor.

  I’ve won! Ben told himself triumphantly as he massaged his bruised throat.

  Then he saw why they had stopped.

  Then again, thought Ben, maybe not.

  Benjamin Kingdom is not best pleased to see me. That was Carter’s first thought, as he stood in the doorway with Ruby Johnson at his side. When they saw him, the young men in Captain Mickelwhite’s brigade slapped their clenched left fists to their right shoulders in the Legion salute, which Carter returned, but his gaze never left Ben.

  There was such a lot of anger in that young man. Carter could see it in his eyes and the defiance of his stance. He smiled; that would be a very useful attribute if it could be channelled in the right direction. He remembered the secret writings in the Dark Library; rage had always been a favourite tool of the Legion, and Ben Kingdom was full to the brim. One little push might be all it took for Ben to start irrevocably down the black path that would lead to his destiny as the Hand of Hell. And Carter’s own personal champion, naturally.

  The Watchers were very keen on mercy and forgiveness, which some would say was to their credit, but in the matter of war, Carter always found wrath to be a far more effective weapon.

  “Benjamin,” he said, performing a pantomime of concern. “Thank goodness you’re safe! I’m relieved that Miss Johnson was able to find you. I have some bad news for you, Ben.”

  “I’m listening.” Ben was still incensed, but Carter could see that he had piqued his interest. Carter spun the moment out a little longer, keeping Ben in anticipation.

  “It’s your brother Nathaniel, I’m afraid,” he said sombrely. “The Watchers have captured him.”

  “What? How? And what do you care anyway?” Ben spat back at him. “When I came to you, you didn’t want to lift a finger for my family.”

  “I was wrong, Ben,” said Carter, continuing to pour out soothing words. “I was so excited about the prospect of you joining me in the Legion that I lost sight of what was really important.”

  “So you’ll help me rescue Nathaniel? Find my pa?” The tone of Ben’s voice had changed and Carter knew that he was winning.

  “I’ll do everything I can,” said Carter, and the look of relief on Ben’s face told him that the battle was his.

  “I’m so glad that we are seeing eye to eye again, Ben.” Carter smiled, and for a fraction of a second Ben smiled back. If Ben was going to be the Hand, it was important for the Legion to stake their claim before the Watchers had their chance. He pushed his advantage home. “We will rescue Nathaniel,” Carter continued, “but first I want you to do something for me.”

  “Name it,” said Ben. “And then we can get going.”

  It was all too easy, Carter thought.

  “Captain Mickelwhite, please be so kind as to stoke up the fire.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Great Mother, but I bring news.”

  Mother Shepherd knew from the tone of Jago Moon’s voice that the matter was grave. She moved slowly, using the time to prepare herself. Age had made a slave of her limbs but that didn’t matter to her; she didn’t have to hurry for anyone. In all her long years, she had learned a thing or two, and if she had any virtues, then patience was one of them. How much of her life had been spent rushing, imagining that speed was of the essence? She knew that it was possible to race your whole life away and never stop for a moment and pause to consider those things that truly mattered.

  Issues of life.

  And death.

  And what comes after.

  She supposed that the church they were in must be cold; these huge echoing buildings always were. Yet she did not feel a chill in her old bones. Candlelight warmed a path ahead of her, but the real fire was the one that stirred her heart. The spark of her God, the Uncreated One, inside her soul. She could feel it; a living, breathing, palpable presence. It gave direction to her life and purpose to her steps.

  She was content that the eyrie was well placed for the night, safely established on top of the Old Bailey. Everyone had shared in mutton broth and bread, and the young ones were bedded down and sleeping, so she had taken the opportunity to slip away and pray, just as she had done for the last seventy-something years.

  The Watchers were not part of any church; they did not have the Papal seal of approval or the blessing of the Anglican synod. However, there were many good church men and women across the denominations that supported them in secret. Some gave food for the orphans they cared for; others prayed for them; others still opened their doors in the dead of night, allowing Mother Shepherd and her flock to find refuge until morning.

  It scared her to think that it all might change. If the Legion had their way, she and all her children would be hunted down like dogs.

  And if Benjamin Kingdom chose the left-hand path over the right, it might happen very soon.

  Jago Moon was pacing back and forth in his agitation, and the tapping of his cane was becoming restless.

  “Come and sit beside me and tell me what is troubling you,” she said, patting the wooden pew as she settled herself upon it. She made an occasional gasp as she sought the position of least discomfort. When did I get so old? she wondered.

  “I’m not worthy,” said Moon.

  “Nonsense,” Mother Shepherd replied. “I’m a foolish old woman taking
the weight off her legs. Who better to rest beside me than a stubborn old man? Now sit down and tell me what we’re facing.”

  “I believe that the last Coin of Judas has surfaced,” said Moon, and Mother Shepherd winced as fear grabbed her stomach and twisted hard.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “I’m only surmising,” said Moon, “but if it is the final Coin then we will all know soon enough.”

  “I need to know everything,” said Mother Shepherd, her voice showing more calm than she felt. “Go back to the beginning.”

  “Lucy has just brought Nathaniel Kingdom to the eyrie,” Moon explained.

  “Benjamin’s brother?”

  “The same,” Moon confirmed. “Apparently, Nathaniel and his father were returning from the docks when they spotted that they were being followed. They took shelter in one of the warehouses and hid there until they were sure that they were safe. When they finally returned to their lodgings they discovered that it had been ransacked and Ben was nowhere to be found.”

  “And where does the Coin fit in?”

  “Nathaniel was in a desperate state when Lucy found him, he’d been searching for Ben all day. He told her that it was his fault Ben was missing. He said that if he hadn’t spotted the Egyptian at the docks, then his father would never have gone over to speak with him and they would never have fallen into the grip of the Coin.”

  “I’m still not following.”

  “It seems that an Egyptian man gave Jonas a silver coin which they hid under the floorboards in their room. Since their room had been torn apart Nathaniel assumes that the real owner came looking for it.”

  “That might be true,” said Mother Shepherd, “but what makes you think that it’s the Judas Coin?”

  “Because of the way Nathaniel described it to Lucy. He told her that it was the most beautiful thing in the world and that since he had clapped eyes on it, he had been consumed with greed for it. Nathaniel said that he could hardly think of anything else, that he wanted it so much that it frightened him.”