by Rod Rees
Burlesque eyed the girl sidelong. He was probably, Vanka thought, trying to establish if the girl’s suggestion that he ‘try her out’ was a double entendre. Disappointment flared on the impresario’s face: he’d obviously decided it wasn’t.
‘D’you dance?’ Burlesque asked suspiciously.
‘Sure, I can dance.’
Sure?
From the moment she had opened her mouth Vanka had known she was just too good to be true. There was definitely something of the Yank about her, and Yanks, as everybody knew, were too independently minded to be reliable. Most of the bastards were Royalists too.
Her being a Yank would definitely be a problem: Burlesque didn’t like Yanks. But Vanka had never heard of a Shade Yank before. Maybe Burlesque didn’t like Shade Yanks. But then Burlesque didn’t like anybody, be they Anglos, Slavs, nuJus, Shades, Polaks, Krauts, Russkis, Frogs, Eyeties, Wogs, Chinks or Nips. Burlesque was an equal-opportunity racist. He was probably wondering if the girl might be an undercover agent working for Shaka … or, worse, a Suffer-O-Gette assassin.
Burlesque continued his interrogation. ‘You tell jokes?’
A moment’s consideration. ‘I guess I could do.’
‘Right, let’s see you outta that shooba,’ said Burlesque, nodding towards the girl’s thick fur coat.
The girl paused, then with a shrug stood up from the chair and wriggled out of her coat. She shuffled self-consciously on her feet as Burlesque gave her body his usual forensic examination.
Looking at her without her coat, Vanka was sure his guess that she was a down-on-her-luck gentlewoman was correct. She was wearing a very sober outfit, just the sort of thing a young lady from a more refined background might wear. The dress was the epitome of decorum, being restrained in both its colouring – dark grey – and its skirt length – only an inch above the floor. Unfortunately the decorum didn’t end there: her bosom was ensnared in an all-encompassing bodice – which was unusual for women in the Pig. Even the bustle was small. All in all it was an outfit that only those of the most proper and conservative of outlooks would be seen dead in: it was the sort of outfit women got buried in.
But proper and conservative though her dress was, it couldn’t disguise the fact that the girl’s figure went in and out in an appealing manner … very appealing indeed.
Burlesque was less than impressed. ‘Gor, your frock’s a bit drab innit and you’re a bit skinny for this singing lark. People coming to see a singer wanna see a bird wiv a bit ov flesh on ‘er. ‘Course you ‘ave got a nice set of charms.’
‘Charms?’ the girl asked in a puzzled way.
‘Tits,’ explained Burlesque with commendable brevity. ‘Yeah, it’s good that you’ve got a decent upper ‘amper. My punters like their singers to bounce around a bit, iffn you knows what I mean.’ He winked at her and miraculously she didn’t run for it. ‘You’ve got to wiggle ‘em abart when yous singing.’ Suddenly he stopped and looked at the girl suspiciously. ‘Yous ain’t a Suffer-O-Gette is you? I’ve been getting sum funny letters from Suffer-O-Gettes lately.’
‘I most certainly am not a Suffer-O-Gette, Mr Bandstand. And with regard to my … charms, I came here this evening to audition as a singer not a stripper.’
Spirited, Vanka liked that. He decided to come to the girl’s aid. ‘You were saying you wanted to take the Pig upmarket, Burlesque, that you wanted to get out of the bump and grind business. Miss Thomas, here, certainly looks refined.’
‘All right,’ said Burlesque with a resigned sigh, ‘let’s see wot you’re abart. ‘Ave a word wiv Arthur.’ He nodded towards the stage. ‘He’s the bloke on the piano. You got your book wiv you?’
The girl had, and with a confidence that belied her youth she gave Burlesque a determined nod and walked to the stage.
Vanka had never heard the song before. It was a jaunty little number called ‘Falling in Love Again’. It seemed that the band hadn’t heard it either, and to begin with they were foxed by the song’s peculiar waltz time. Eventually though they got into what the girl called ‘the groove’ and her performance, to Vanka’s untrained ear, was remarkable. Remarkable and highly unusual.
She didn’t have one of the big blowsy voices usually possessed by women singing in Burlesque’s pubs: hers was more subtle, and nuanced. She managed to quiet the room, even the gabbling hookers sitting gossiping at the back of the pub. She was a stunningly different singer. The problem was that Burlesque wasn’t comfortable with ‘different’.
When the final notes of the song faded away he sat immobilised by indecision. ‘I dunno,’ he said eventually. ‘People coming to the Pig like their singers big an’ loud. Waddya fink, Wanker? Should I give ‘er a gig?’
Vanka gave an incredulous shake of his head. ‘Burlesque, she’s the most amazing singer I’ve ever heard. Of course you’ve got to give her a gig. Give it a couple of weeks and the Pig will be packed.’
Burlesque remained unconvinced. ‘I dunno …’ He trailed off and then, obviously struck by inspiration, his face lit up in a smile. ‘I tell you wot, luv,’ he shouted towards the girl, who was still standing rather awkwardly on the stage, ‘as this is a burlesque show yer auditioning for, ‘ow would you feel about singing charms out? I could bill you as the “Naked Nightingale” or some such.’
Vanka buried his face in his hands. His interpretation of ‘upmarket’ and Burlesque’s were obviously very different.
‘Absolutely not.’ There was a decided frost in the girl’s voice.
Burlesque’s face darkened. ‘Why not? It’d get a lot ov punters in.’
‘I don’t care. It isn’t dignified. It’s not jad singing. It’s pornography.’
Burlesque wasn’t used to being told no by a woman. Like most men in the Rookeries he was used to women doing as they were bloody well told, especially women who wanted a job from him.
‘Don’t be a soppy cow. It ain’t pawnography; it’s show business. And the fings I want yous to show are your tits.’
‘No,’ said the girl even more firmly.
Burlesque was totally perplexed by her intransigence. ‘You sure you ain’t a Suffer-O-Gette?’ Vanka knew why he was confused: most girls offered a gig at one of Burlesque’s pubs would be more than delighted to take their clothes off … and more.
‘No. I can assure you, Mr Bandstand …’
The girl’s refusal seemed to convince Burlesque that his suspicions were correct. ‘I bet you’re a Suffer-O-Gette come ‘ere to do me in.’
‘Mr Bandstand, please.’
‘I bet it wos you sending me all them poison-pen letters.’
Vanka sensed Burlesque’s mood becoming decidedly more malevolent. He’d probably been drinking all day, trying to dampen his worries about being assassinated, and now all that drunken anguish was welling out. It was a dangerous moment: Burlesque’s podgy and slightly comical appearance often tricked people into forgetting just how tough and vicious he actually was. No one became as big a duke as Burlesque was in the East End pub trade without being able to fight their corner.
‘Well, let me tell yous this, Miss ‘Oity-Toity Thomas, ‘oo ain’t inclined to take ‘er clobber off, that iffn yous is a Suffer-O-Gette then I ain’t just some no-account ‘erbert. Yous an’ your cronies come after Burlesque Bandstand an’ yous gonna get a real ‘ot reception.’ And for emphasis Burlesque drew the oversized Webley pistol he had hidden under his coat and placed it firmly on the table in front of him.
There was a scrabbling of chairs around the pub as punters sought to place themselves out of the line of fire, which they knew from experience generally meant sitting in another pub at least half a mile distant. A drunk Burlesque was that lousy a shot.
‘I’m sorry,’ spluttered the girl on the stage, her eyes goggling at the sight of the gun. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
The remarkable thing for Vanka was that the girl’s confusion was perfectly genuine. She was without doubt the most incredibly naïve creature he had ever met.
She was, in a word, perfect.
16
The Demi-Monde: 40th Day of Winter, 1004
The Seventh nuCommandment: You shall shun all those who are base in the sight of ABBA. You shall revile and disdain all those who are cursed to be UnderMentionables in the knowledge that all UnderMentionables – be they nuJu, Shade, Pole or Chink – are as animals in the sight of ABBA. You shall not know any UnderMentionable carnally. There is no greater sin than the Sin of Miscegenation driven by the Daemon Lilith.
– The UnFunDaMentalist Prayer Book (1004 Edition)
What a screw-up.
But then no one had warned her what a flake this Burlesque Bandstand item would be. Not even PINC, which was odd because PINC seemed to know everything about everyone in the Demi-Monde.
Ella looked up and down the narrow street outside the Prancing Pig. It was dark now and everything looked infinitely more dangerous than it had just an hour before. Who knew what horrors were waiting to pounce out on her from the shadows?
The nerve of that guy … asking her to sing topless!
Squinting her eyes to see beyond the penumbra of the gas lamps, Ella looked around her. It wasn’t the sort of place she liked to be at night. She was lost in some sort of Dickensian madhouse: wherever she looked all she could see was squalor, dirt and corruption, the whole sorry mess suffused with the stench of horse shit and rotting garbage. And she had the sneaking feeling that it wasn’t just rats of the four-legged variety that came out to play at night.
She shivered as a swirl of snow carouselled around her.
It was then she realised that, in her hurry to get out of the pub, she’d left her coat inside. Her coat that had all her money, her room keys, her identity papers and her derringer in its pockets. She couldn’t believe how stupid she’d been and because of that stupidity she was now back on the streets of the Rookeries with no gig, no home and not a fucking clue as to what to do next.
Terrific.
Now she really was up to her ass in alligators.
She’d have to get her coat back but the thought of going anywhere near that madman Burlesque Bandstand did not appeal. He’d probably put a bullet through her head as soon as he saw her. For a second she had half a mind to forget about Norma Williams and simply to hit the bricks. It was hopeless. Better to slink off to the docks, jump on a barge going to NoirVille, find the Portal and get back to the Real World. Five million bucks was a lot of money but not if she was going to be trapped in this cyber-rathole for the rest of her life.
‘Excuse me, Miss Thomas, might’n I have a word?’
She recognised the man who was addressing her. He was the long-haired item who had been sitting next to Burlesque Bandstand in the pub, the good-looking one with the bruise on his cheek and a glint in his eye that suggested that he knew things other people didn’t. The one PINC knew nothing about.
Trying desperately to disguise her shivering, Ella glowered at the man. ‘What can I do for you, Mr …?’
The man doffed his top hat and performed a somewhat over-elaborate bow. ‘I am Colonel Vanka Ivanovich Maykov, latterly commander of the ForthRight Army’s Fifth Regiment of Foot, at your service.’
Yeah, right.
This Vanka Maykov was never a soldier. He had the look of someone who wasn’t comfortable with taking orders.
‘And with regard to what I might do for you, Miss Thomas …’ The man held out Ella’s fur coat. ‘I believe you forgot this in your quite understandable haste to leave the pig. That’s pig with a small “p”.’
Despite herself Ella laughed, took the coat and slid herself gratefully into its warmth. ‘You are very kind, Colonel Maykov.’
‘I would prefer it if you would call me Vanka. And as for thanks, I would be grateful for a few minutes of your time, Miss Thomas. I have a business proposition I would like to discuss with you.’
‘I’ve had a bellyful of being propositioned tonight, Vanka. As I think you heard when I was in discussion with your friend Burlesque Bandstand: I ain’t that sort of girl.’
‘Oh, I appreciate your sensibilities, Miss Thomas, and what I wish to propose would require you doing nothing untoward.’
He took a step closer to Ella. Too close. She snaked her hand around the butt of the derringer concealed in the inside pocket of her coat.
‘Stop there,’ she said. ‘One step closer and I’ll burn you down.’ To emphasise the threat, she hauled the derringer out and brandished it threateningly.
The man stopped as he was ordered and made the halfhearted gesture of raising his hands to demonstrate that he was unarmed. ‘I apologise if I have alarmed you, Miss Thomas, but believe me, my intentions are strictly honourable.’
A steamer trundled past clanging its bell, its headlights washing over the man, giving Ella a better look at him. He was tall – over six foot – lean and impeccably dressed. He looked rather dashing. And though a little old – she guessed he was mid-twenties – he was handsome in a bashed-about sort of way. He wasn’t an Anglo, his English was too good for him to be that and from his slight accent Ella guessed him to be a Russki. A good-looking Russki. Ella liked the mischievous twinkle in his eye: the man, unless she was very much mistaken, was a rogue. And Ella had a soft spot for rogues, even computer-generated ones.
Shame about the moustache. Well, nobody was perfect.
‘So what can I do for you, Vanka?’
That impudent smile again. The man was a real charmer. ‘As I intimated to you in the Pig, I am a Licensed Psychic and Occultist and as such I am permitted to conduct séances to enable members of the general public to communicate with the Spirit World. I have been engaged to conduct a series of séances here in the Rookeries but unfortunately, due to illness, my regular assistant is incapacitated. I therefore find myself in need of a PsyChick to help me with my performances. Having seen you perform in the Pig, I am convinced that you are ideally suited to the position I have to fill.’
Ella found herself believing him. He certainly looked genuine enough and he had brought her coat back without – as best she could establish – removing any of her valuables. And she was alone, at night, in one of the most dangerous parts of the Rookeries.
‘I’m listening,’ she said, adding a flavour of indifference to her tone. It wouldn’t do to seem too enthusiastic.
‘Might I make so bold as to invite you for a cup of coffee? It seems a little déclassé for us to be standing negotiating in the middle of the street.’
Déclassé … oh là là.
‘Okay, there’s a coffee house across the road from my rooms. We can take our coffee there, Colonel Vanka Maykov, and we can talk as we walk.’
Fortunately the streets of the Rookeries were considerably less crowded at night and the pair of them were able to amble along side by side quite comfortably. It also seemed that the big, bluff Vanka Maykov with his broad shoulders and his cane deterred even the most determined of those who prowled the night in the Demi-Monde.
‘So, Vanka, perhaps you might begin by explaining to me just what a “Licensed Psychic and Occultist” is.’
Vanka chuckled and gave his cane a playful twirl. ‘I am blessed, Miss Thomas, with certain strange abilities,’ he intoned gravely. ‘These abilities give me the power to communicate with the Spirit World, with the souls of those who have gone before us.’
‘Gone where?’ asked Ella sweetly.
‘If you are familiar with the works of His Holiness Comrade Crowley, you will appreciate that beyond the reality of the DemiMonde is a realm inhabited by the Spirits of the Dead. My gift allows me to open channels through to that Spirit World and speak with those who once lived in this Veil of Tears but who have now passed on.’
Ella had to look away. As part of her psychology studies she had done a paper on how faux-Spiritualists fooled the gullible and the vulnerable into believing their mumbo-jumbo, but she had never for the life of her thought she would ever be asked to work as an assistant to a real huckster … well, as real as an
y Dupe huckster could be.
‘And how would I be able to assist you in your channelling? As far as I know I have no great facility with regards to Spiritualism.’
Vanka halted at the edge of the pavement and made a great show of looking about for oncoming traffic before stepping carefully into the road. ‘Unfortunately the practice of Spiritualism has been tarnished – adulterated, if you will – by the activities of a number of sharps who mask their lack of talent with theatrical tricks.’
‘Tricks? What sort of theatrical tricks?’ prompted Ella, dressing her face with the most disingenuous of smiles.
Vanka nudged Ella lightly around a pile of horse manure that adorned the middle of the road. ‘These shysters are prone to stoop to such low contrivances as table rattling, levitation and the manifestation of ghosts and ectoplasm to convince their audiences that they are indeed gifted with the same powers as those possessed by adepts such as myself.’ He shook his head dolefully. ‘It is a sad reflection of the world in which we live, Miss Thomas, that without such artifice and theatricality, the audiences at a séance are now somewhat disappointed.’
As she stepped up onto the pavement, Ella eyed the man carefully. ‘So, let me see if I’ve got this straight, Vanka. All these tricksters, in order to hide the fact that they have no psychic ability, fool their clients with a flim-flam display of tricks and gimmicks …’
‘Exactly.’
‘… but they have been so successful that now, in the public’s mind, these tricks and gimmicks are such an indispensable part of the ritual of Spiritualism that without them a true adept such as you …’
An appreciative nod of the head.
‘… finds it difficult to be taken seriously.’
‘A most pithy and insightful summary.’
‘So where do I come into all this?’ Ella asked.