The Claws of Evil

by Andrew Beasley

  Stop.

  Somewhere a small girl was crying in fear. She reminded him of Molly.

  Stop.

  The Feathered Men caught hold of another Watcher and tore at him with their beaks. Ben had to turn his eyes away from the hurting, the fighting, the blood.

  Please make it stop!

  His right hand began to tremble again, as if the pricking of his conscience were somehow linked to the needle-jab sensation. Hesitantly, he rolled his fingers into a ball and lifted his arm above his head once more. This time the power did not fade.

  And the clouds responded.

  Ben held his right fist aloft and felt the awesome power throbbing with renewed force. The great and powerful Right Hand of Heaven, that was what Moon had said Ben could be. But Moon had it wrong, Ben realized; this force wasn’t his own to wield. The Hand was just a channel. He was a conduit for something much greater than he or Jago Moon could ever imagine; the raw energy at the heart of the universe. Ben didn’t know what that source was and he certainly didn’t understand how it could work through him, but one thing he did know: it was time for the fighting to end.

  Ben extended a finger and the clouds blossomed in submission.

  Ben saw Carter.

  I choose not to hate you.

  The clouds grew as dark and deep as the ocean and then began to fill with other-wordly fire; flames that swirled and danced in the sky.

  Ben swept his right hand upwards, and the clouds became a pillar, stretching up further than the eye could see. He saw his father’s prone body.

  I choose not to be filled with bitterness.

  Slowly Ben lowered his hand, allowing his actions to be guided by intuition, not his own thoughts. In a final graceful gesture, he closed his fingers slowly and pulled his right hand in towards his chest.

  And in answer, the clouds gave up their load.

  The first hailstone hit the ground two inches from Carter’s foot. It was the size of a musket ball and twice as hard. The second one struck Carter on the shoulder. The third on his head.

  Carter screamed in pain, trying to shield himself from the torrent of ice.

  In the skies, the hailstones whistled as they sought out their targets. Ben saw wings pierced and the Feathered Men spinning helplessly as the power of flight was taken from them. They fell onto the bridge, onto the groaning ice, staggering in confusion and distress as the missiles shattered all around them. Not dead, but defeated, Ben understood. Overwhelmed by the white rain that sought out the Legion but left the Watchers untouched.

  Ben’s ears were filled with the hammering of falling hail and the moaning of the Legion as they ran away, escaping into the Under.

  When Ben looked again, Carter had gone too. Another rat scurrying back into his hole.

  I really hate rats, Ben thought.

  The clouds lifted. The onslaught ceased.

  On the bridge, the Watchers were cheering as they continued to evacuate the last of the stragglers. Scattered all around, the wounded were groaning and the Watchers were tending to all of them, friend and foe alike. Life would go on.

  But not for everyone.

  Ben let his own eyes drop to his feet, to rest on Jonas Kingdom, motionless on the ice. He collapsed to his knees beside his father’s body. Blue with cold. Red with blood.

  It was Christmas Day, Ben thought; the same day that he had lost his mother.

  Ben didn’t know how long he sat there on the frozen Thames. He was shivering uncontrollably in his sodden clothes, but he couldn’t find the strength to move.

  Jonas Kingdom hadn’t moved either since Ben had pulled him from the water.

  Ben was vaguely aware that he was not alone on the ice and he looked up to see Nathaniel and the Weeping Man standing beside him. They both looked drained to their very core. Tears painted all their faces.

  “It’s not over, Benjamin Kingdom,” said the Weeping Man.

  “Haven’t I done enough for the Watchers today?” spat Ben. “What more do you want from me?”

  “Place your right hand on your father’s chest.”

  “And then what?”

  “You are the Right Hand of Heaven,” said the Weeping Man. “You tell me.”

  Ben placed his right hand on his father’s chest and let the power flow from his fingers.

  Jonas Kingdom remained colder than a stone.

  Please, thought Ben, urging his father to respond.

  Ben repositioned his hand, feeling the throbbing inside his own skin, but seeing no response from Jonas.

  Please.

  His father’s lips were the grey of dead fish.

  Ben looked pleadingly at the Weeping Man and the angel gently placed his own hand on top of Ben’s.

  Please!

  His father’s eyes held no spark of life.

  His father’s chest was still. His skin was cold.

  His father’s heart was...stirring faintly inside his ribcage, as frail as a newborn bird.

  The merest hint of pink touched his father’s cheeks. His eyelids fluttered. Once. Twice.

  Bracing himself for the worst, Ben ripped open what remained of his father’s shirt collar to see the jagged tear left by Carter’s claw and saw the wound knit itself together, the flesh made whole again. The chest below the scar began to rise. The heart within beat stronger.

  Then, with a start, Jonas sat up and looked around him, dazed, like a man who had been asleep a thousand years and didn’t recognize the world.

  “Hello, Pa,” said Ben, as their eyes met.

  Jonas embraced him then as he had never done before, fiercely and tightly. Ben felt that his own bones might break, but that was fine by him. At least he would die happy.

  “I was so worried about you, Ben,” said Jonas, blinking back tears. “I thought I’d lost you, son.” Jonas held Ben’s face in both hands so that he could drink him in more deeply.

  “I love you, Benjamin,” said Jonas Kingdom at last.

  “I know, Pa,” said Ben.

  And with nothing else to be said, they picked themselves up off the ice and set off to find the other Watchers. The three Kingdom men and their friend, the Weeping Man.

  As they slowly walked away, Ben noticed that his head felt naked and he realized that he had lost his billycock somewhere. I really loved that hat, he thought wistfully.

  A lopsided grin spread right across his face as he remembered the hail that he had brought from the sky, and the expression on Carter’s face when the stones had started cracking him on the head. Ben wiggled his fingers experimentally and wondered what else they could do.

  Although his body was absolutely freezing, he felt warm on the inside like he never had before. And he felt proud of the choice that he had made, to be the Right Hand, not the Left.

  The boy done good, he thought contentedly.

  And he was especially pleased that he had outwitted Claw Carter.

  He tapped his pocket just to check. Still there.

  It wasn’t the real Coin that he had thrown into the Thames, of course. He had tricked them all. It was the mouldy old farthing that he’d had all the time.

  Ben smiled.

  Ain’t life grand.

  Scars were good, in Claw Carter’s opinion. They reminded you of mistakes not to be made again. Defeat was good too, because it sharpened a man’s desire to win the next bout.

  If the Coin had been denied him, then he needed a new weapon and he knew where to look to find one. Carter had not left the Dark Library for days. He couldn’t remember when he had last eaten, although he knew that Ruby Johnson was at his beck and call, bringing him sandwiches of rare and bloody beef.

  He turned a dry page that had lain ignored for decades.

  Upon the summoning of the Nightmare Child,
he read.

  Happy New Year, Benjamin Kingdom. Enjoy it while you may.

  Ben gazed up at the Tower of London and shuddered. It was a cold monument with a dark and bloodstained history and he was afraid that the Legion were about to write their own gruesome chapter. The crown jewels were no longer here; they were gone along with the Queen and the entire company of yeoman wardens. Only the ravens had remained, joined by hundreds of Legionnaires gathered for the Feast. Mr. Sweet’s voice echoed across the courtyard and Ben listened in silence, his hands tied behind his back and a big fat guard at his side. He was a prisoner, awaiting his fate...

  Out September 2013

  ISBN: 9781409546245

  epub: 9781409557357 kindle: 9781409557364

  An unorthodox glossary for some of the more unusual words to be found in this book.

  ballast heaver: big blokes paid to lift very heavy goods (ballast) into the holds of ships to improve stability.

  billycock: a felt hat with a low, rounded crown, like a bowler. The best sort of hat there is.

  bobby: a police officer, named after Robert “Bobby” Peel, founder of the Metropolitan Police in 1829.

  brougham carriage: a light, four-wheeled horse-drawn carriage. The footplate provides an excellent free ride for those who are light of foot and empty of pocket, like me.

  bullseye lantern: oil-fuelled, usually handheld, lantern with a round glass face like a bullseye (great for skulking).

  chancer: a con man or crafty opportunist.

  coal-whipper: someone who unloads coal out of the hold of a ship. A very mucky business indeed.

  cooper: a maker or repairer of barrels and casks.

  lascar: a sailor or militiaman from India, Burma, Ceylon and other lands, now employed on European ships.

  his nibs: what we call stuck-up toffs who think they’re more intelligent and more important than they really are.

  monkeyshines: mischievous or playful tricks – good stuff!

  mudlark: someone, usually an underappreciated boy, who makes a living scavenging in river mud for items of value. It does mean you get to keep the richest pickings for yourself though.

  privy: outdoor loo/bog, usually located in a small shed away from the main living quarters (because they stink!).

  road-apple: a big steaming dollop of horse manure. Recommended as a makeshift (but messy) weapon in emergencies.

  rookery: an overcrowded, under-sanitised city slum. Your home, if you are poor and unlucky. Rookeries have nicked their name from the nesting habits of rooks, great crow-like birds who live crammed into noisy colonies in the treetops.

  snuff it: to die, kick the bucket, give up the ghost, etc. It happens a lot in Victorian London, hence why we have so many ways of saying it.

  skylark: to mess about, play tricks and have a good time.

  tosher: a filthy type who makes a living scavenging in the sewers. Easily identified by their stench.

  P. S. Toshers’ dogs are even dirtier than their owners.

  Acknowledgements

  Writing this book has been a pleasure from start to finish and I have been supported, guided and loved by some wonderful people every step of the way.

  Special thanks go to Gideon McCubbine... if you hadn’t been in my class I might never have met your mum, the talented and generous editor, Helen Greathead. Thank you, Helen, for the hours you kindly spent editing your son’s teacher’s homework. Thank you too, for introducing me to my agent, the marvellous Anne Finnis. Thank you, Anne, for everything that you have done to help my lifelong dream come true. Thanks also to the incredible Caroline Hill-Trevor, for taking Ben’s battles to lands near and far. This is where the adventure starts!

  One glance at the beautiful cover of this book is testament to the skill and love that many talented people have poured into it. My thanks go out to Rebecca Hill for finding a home for Ben Kingdom with Usborne, Hannah Cobley for her outstanding cover design, and my cover artist and illustrator, David Wyatt, for bringing the world of the Watchers to such vivid life. Special thanks also to my editor, Stephanie King. Stephanie, you have been Ben’s first champion; your insight and enthusiasm have made this book better than I could have ever managed on my own. Thank you all.

  I’m a family man and so I have to end by thanking the people who fill my life with joy. Mum and Dad, this book would not have been possible without you; I owe you so much. Amanda, you always knew I’d make it one day; I haven’t forgotten. Mum and Jack, thank you for cheering me on. Ben and Lucy, being your dad is the proudest achievement of my life; you make me smile every day. My darling Julie, I don’t have enough words to say how much I love you. And to the one who set me on this path all those years ago. I love you all.

  About the Author

  Andrew Beasley was born in Hertfordshire, and has spent most of his life with his nose buried in a book.

  As a student he read law in Bristol, but was disappointed to discover that life as a lawyer wasn’t as exciting as books had led him to believe. He then spent a number of years travelling extensively across Europe for work, although he didn’t see much of it because he was usually reading a book.

  Andrew is now a primary school teacher, where he shares his passion for storytelling with his class. Andrew lives in Cornwall with his wife and their two children, Ben and Lucy. The Claws of Evil is his debut novel.

  The Battles Continue At

  www.benkingdom.com