The Demi-Monde: Winter

by Rod Rees

  She grabbed the huge pistol by its barrel. It was so hot that it burnt through the leather of her gloves and scalded her hand. She ignored the pain. Just as she’d seen in cop movies she held the revolver two-handed and pointed it back along the sewers. She pulled back the trigger. The bang as the pistol fired was deafening but still Ella kept pulling the trigger until the gun was empty.

  Now all there was left to do was run.

  It was Ella’s PINC-inspired knowledge of the sewers that saved them. She led Vanka in a perplexing and confusing series of turns and backtracks until, finally, she managed to throw off the chasing Anglos. Then …

  ‘There!’ she heard Vanka shout as he lurched along. It took a moment for Ella to make out what he was talking about. Perhaps a hundred yards ahead was the end of the sewer, illuminated by the unmistakable lights of the city. Spirits lifted by how close to salvation they were, the two of them staggered as fast as they dared towards the sewer mouth.

  Then, before she had a chance to realise what was happening, the slope of the sewer pitched forward and Ella found herself being hurled towards the river as though she was riding a water chute.

  The only thought she had as she tumbled was ‘Why didn’t PINC warn me?’

  29

  The Demi-Monde: 79th and 80th Days of Winter, 1004

  What is reBop? That, cats and kittens, is a real killer-diller question. So let me lay it on you straight, no chaser: reBoppers are the beat-daddies toot cool who dig jad music, the music most wigged-out and wonky coming to us from the fly and sly hombres who liveth in the nuJu Autonomous District of NoirVille. But think not that reBop is just about the music. Dig to the maximum that reBop is a way of life and a way of afterlife. ReBoppers are zoned in and mucho de able to diggeth the most secret and strange of DemiMondian happenings. In terms of the dark, dark WhoDoo magic they are, like, high, fly and too wet to dry.

  – Greetings Gate, Let’s Agitate:

  Cab Calloway, Bust Your Conk Books

  It took a moment when Ella woke up for her to remember where she was. She remembered being spewed out of the sewer, remembered landing in the icy-cold waters of the Rhine, remembered Vanka dragging her ashore and bustling her through the night-black alleyways of Berlin and she remembered him bringing her to these rooms which belonged to …

  She struggled for a moment trying to recall the name. It was a funny name.

  Rivets.

  That was it: Rivets, the young guy who seemed to be Vanka’s friend, who had taken them in and given them a bed for the night. It was Rivets who’d shown her to the bedroom she was now occupying. She remembered taking off her foul and soaking wet clothes, wrapping herself in a blanket and lying down on the bed, but after that, nothing.

  She focused her sleep-heavy eyes towards the clock ticking on the wall. It was two o’clock … two o’clock in the afternoon if the sunshine streaming in through the window was any indicator. That meant she’d been asleep for almost ten hours. Using an elbow she levered herself into a sitting position – trying to ignore the protests of her aching body as she did so – and looked around. It was really quite a pleasant bedroom, with high ceilings and elegant furnishings. It was also very neat and tidy, the only jarring note being the pristine white shirt hanging from the wardrobe door with a sheet of paper pinned to the collar.

  Odd.

  Grudgingly relinquishing the warmth of her bed, she swung her legs out from under the covers, got to her feet and stretched, arching the pain and the cramps out of her back and reaching high with her arms until her muscles announced that they were recovered from the torment of crouching in the sewers. Then, keeping her blanket wrapped tight around her, she tripped over to see what was written on the message.

  Good afternoon Ella,

  I’ve had to pop out for a couple of hours. I’ll be back at 4 o’clock. I suggest that you spend the time ridding yourself of some of the friends you’ve brought with you from Warsaw and making yourself presentable for a night on the town. You’ll find some towels and other useful items on the dresser. I’m sorry but your clothes were beyond salvaging so I’ve had them burnt. I’ll bring you a new wardrobe back with me. In the interim all I can offer you is the use of one of my shirts.

  Your friend

  Vanka Maykov

  It took nearly an hour, four big pans of piping hot water, lots of scrubbing, savage use of a nit-comb and nearly all of a bottle of Mrs Murdock’s Patented Lice Lotion before Ella began to feel clean and human again. Spirits revived, she’d put on Vanka’s shirt and then set about brewing herself a mug of coffee.

  She was just enjoying a second mug when a very smartly dressed Vanka arrived back at the rooms, looking freshly barbered and laundered and with his arms laden with boxes.

  ‘Ah, so Sleeping Beauty returns to the land of the living,’ he announced as he placed the boxes onto the table. ‘You look marvellous, Ella, and I have to say that that shirt never looked as good on me as it does on you. How are you feeling?’

  Ella curtsied her appreciation of his compliment. ‘A little battered and bruised but still in one piece. You were very considerate regarding the toiletries.’

  ‘I trust you found everything you needed. Please, treat my humble apartment as you would your own home.’

  ‘This is your apartment?’

  ‘It’s a bolt-hole I have in Berlin, but because of fears that it might be being watched by that swine Skobelev I’ve steered clear of it of late. Rivets has been looking after it for me.’ Vanka must have sensed the unvoiced question. ‘Rivets is my partner in crime. He helps me with some of my more unorthodox business ventures.’

  As explanations went it explained precisely nothing, which Ella guessed was exactly what Vanka intended. ‘What’s in the boxes?’ she asked as she settled down on the couch.

  ‘Presents … presents for you.’

  ‘Oh, good: I adore presents.’

  ‘The sad fact is, Ella, that having seen you in that shirt I find myself loath to give them to you. You have very fine legs and it is therefore with some reluctance that I must provide clothes designed to hide them from view.’ With that he tapped a finger on top of the packages. ‘But first an apology: I must confess to have taken advantage of you when you were asleep last night.’

  The sudden concerned look on her face provoked a laugh. ‘Forgive my clumsy phrasing: I took advantage of you to measure your feet whilst you were asleep. I have taken the liberty of selecting two costumes for you. Louffie Louverture – the man we are to negotiate with regarding the delivery of blood to Warsaw – has a penchant for fine clothes and beautiful women so no expense has been spared! And all this is courtesy of Aleister Crowley and the really quite outrageous fee he paid for us to put on the séance at Dashwood Manor.’ He opened the first box. ‘This costume is quite mundane: it is something a fashionable young lady might wear in the afternoon.’

  Once the package’s contents had been laid out across the back of the couch, Ella found herself astonished by the care that Vanka had lavished on the selection of her outfit. The long skirt was cream-coloured with deep vents at the back which would, she suspected, give it an elegantly flowing line. There was a contrasting short-cut jacket of the deepest blue with a high collar and gigot sleeves, and a white blouse in the most delicate of lace. The whole ensemble was to be topped off by a straw boater dressed with the inevitable veil.

  ‘Do you like it?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘It’s marvellous. Vanka, you have exquisite taste.’

  ‘But wait! There is my second selection, an ensemble for you to wear when we visit the Resi tonight.’

  ‘The Resi?’

  ‘It’s a nightclub here in Berlin.’

  Ella scrolled through PINC to be told that the Resi in the Berlin District of the ForthRight was a duplicate of the original, Real World nightclub that had been famous – infamous, more like – as a hotbed of immorality and decadence in Weimar Germany.

  This should be interesting.

  ‘Str
ange that there should be a nightclub in the centre of the ForthRight. I wouldn’t have thought the UnFunnies would have permitted it.’

  Vanka laughed. ‘You can thank Beria for the Resi: he wants somewhere where he can let his hair down. He goes there to hunt for girls.’ Vanka lit a cigarette. ‘Anyway, as rumour has it, he also keeps it open to piss off Crowley: the pair of them hate each other.’

  ‘Why are we going there?’

  ‘It’s where we’ll find Toussaint Louverture … Louffie to his friends. He’s one of Shaka’s chief lieutenants and he’s the chap who can organise the shipment of blood.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Yeah, I know him. He owes me for a consignment of blood.’ He gave Ella a rueful smile. ‘We’ll have to be careful: Louverture’s a very dangerous man. He’s a Blood Brother so the last thing we want him to know is that you’re a Daemon. If he finds out then you’ll get to NoirVille all right but you’ll find yourself being exsanguinated for your trouble.’ Vanka took a nervous drag of his cigarette. ‘Hopefully though he’s mellowed a little since I saw him last. Word is that since he’s hooked up with Josephine Baker he’s a changed man.’

  ‘Josephine Baker?’

  ‘Yeah. Louverture isn’t just one of the big dukes in the Blood Brothers, he also runs the Revue Nègre – which is currently performing at the Resi – though he only does that so he can keep an eye on his Bronze Venus.’

  Ella clapped her hands in excitement. ‘We’re going to see Josephine Baker tonight?’

  A nod from Vanka.

  ‘Then tonight’s going to be one of the most memorable nights of my life.’

  ‘I just hope we find Louffie in a good mood, otherwise it might also be the last night of your entire life. That’s why I took so much trouble selecting your evening gown.’ He opened a second box. ‘I wanted to find a dress for you which would do more than just adorn your superb figure: it had to be a dress so glamorous, so daring, so risqué that no man seeing you in it – especially Toussaint Louverture – would be able to deny you anything. We’re lucky that Louffie’s one of the few males in NoirVille who isn’t enraptured by men. Therefore … voilà!’

  From out of the second package he conjured a dress of such sublime elegance that for a moment Ella was lost for words. Made from cream satin, it was long, close-fitting, backless and, from what she could make out, nigh on frontless. It was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen.

  Vanka seemed unsettled by her silence. ‘I trust you approve of my selection, Ella, but now having seen you, I think even if you appeared for this evening’s rendezvous in that shirt Louverture and every man in the Resi would applaud.’

  ‘Oh, Vanka, you’ve been so very kind to me. It’s a wonderful, wonderful dress, but you do realise if I wear it I won’t be able to disguise the fact that I’m a Shade.’

  ‘The Resi is the one place in the ForthRight where you don’t have to hide what you are, Ella. With Josephine Baker’s Revue Nègre performing there you’ll be just one woman of colour amongst many. Tonight you are quite at liberty to flaunt both your colour and your beauty.’

  Before she quite knew what she was doing Ella had skipped up from the couch and kissed Vanka on the cheek.

  There was an embarrassed pause, then Vanka raised his hand to the place where she had planted the kiss. ‘I warned you once before, Ella, that beautiful young ladies being so free with their affections might find themselves in danger of having their affections reciprocated.’ And with that he leant forward and placed the lightest of kisses on her mouth. It was like a dam breaking. Before Ella quite knew what was happening she was in Vanka’s arms, her mouth hard against his, their bodies merging.

  She’d never felt like this about a man before. She felt dizzy with excitement. It was as though the pair of them belonged together.

  They broke and spent a breathless moment simply holding one another, simply enjoying the comforting feel of each other’s bodies. Then Vanka stood back. ‘Ella … I will help you escape the Demi-Monde, I will guard and protect you, I will never leave you. But you must promise me one thing.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘I know here in this world we can never be together: you’ve told me that I’m just a copy of a Vanka Maykov living in the Real World. So, when you return there, will you find me?’

  ‘I’ll find you, Vanka, I’ll find you. Vanka … Vanka … I love—’

  ‘Gor, bugger me but it’s brass monkeys out there,’ complained Rivets as he barged through the door. Ella and Vanka jumped away from one another and urgently looked for something to occupy their attention. Rivets seemed not to notice the awkwardness of the situation that he’d stumbled into, he simply shrugged and dropped the box he was carrying on the floor. ‘I got most ov the stuff you wanted, Vanka. The point-two-two was a bit ov a pig to source but I found wun in a ‘ockshop.’

  He dug into the jacket pocket of his overtight and overchecked suit, pulled out a tiny revolver and tossed it to Ella. ‘‘Ere’s a “Welcome to Berlin” present from your pal Rivets, Miss Ella. This ‘ere’s a lady’s gun: small and delicate but good at busting hearts.’ The boy stretched out a hand. ‘We didn’t ‘ave a chance for a proper introduction last night. Me name’s Rivets and I’m Vanka’s oppo.’

  They shook hands and immediately Ella knew everything there was to know about the orphan: how he’d been found wandering the streets by Vanka who’d taken pity on him, how he’d become a dab hand at helping Vanka with his short cons and how his Jack-the-lad demeanour hid a penetrating intelligence. Undersized and scrawny he might be but he’d packed a lifetime of experiences into his fifteen years. In many ways he was a pocket Vanka.

  ‘Rivets: that’s an interesting name.’

  ‘Got it ‘cos I’m good at nailing birds,’ answered Rivets with a wink and then for emphasis made a leering examination of Ella’s naked legs. ‘Nice pins …’ he began and then stopped abruptly when he saw the still weeping cuts on her thigh.

  ‘Crikey, you’s bleedin’,’ he spluttered. ‘Wot is you: a Daemon?’

  ‘Yes, Rivets, she’s a Daemon,’ said Vanka quickly. ‘But she’s a friendly Daemon.’

  ‘A friendly Daemon.’ Rivets chewed the oxymoron around for a moment and then eyed Ella carefully. ‘I ain’t never met a real live Daemon before. You sure she’s ‘armless, Vanka? I ‘ear these Daemons are buggers for villainy.’

  ‘Oh, Ella is quite harmless, Rivets, except when she’s got her dander up.’ Vanka took a freshly laundered handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Ella, who used it to dab away the blood on her leg.

  She gave the handkerchief back. ‘Thanks, Vanka.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Vanka refolded it and put it back in his pocket. ‘I’ll treasure it.’

  Cautiously Rivets stepped forward to study Ella’s legs more closely. ‘Well, I’ve got to say, Vanka, that she don’t look much like a Daemon, ‘ceptin’, ov course, that she’s a Shade but then there are a power of Shades down in NoirVille and they ain’t Daemons. Well … I don’t fink they is.’ He turned to look at Vanka. ‘Any’ows, Vanka, wot are yous doing palling up wiv a Daemon?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Rivets, but all you need to know is that by helping Ella here we’re going to make ourselves very, very rich.’

  Rivets wasn’t convinced. ‘I don’t knows about this malarkey, Vanka. Helpin’ a Daemon: that’s not natural that ain’t.’

  ‘It’s worth ten thousand guineas to you, if you do,’ said Vanka quietly.

  Rivets paused for a moment letting his imagination run around with the idea of having so much money to spend. ‘Well, iffn you puts it like that, unnatural or not, I don’t suppose there’s any real harm in it.’

  ‘No, there’s no harm in it, Rivets, but it might be an idea, Ella, if you were to get dressed. We don’t want anyone else seeing your legs.’

  As Ella collected her new clothes she was struck by a thought. ‘Have you heard anything about Norma Williams?’

  Vanka shook his
head. ‘No. She’s probably dead, drowned in the sewers. I presume you Daemons can drown?’

  ‘Oh yes, we can drown. We Daemons can die in the DemiMonde just like we can die in the Real World.’

  ‘Then it’s a penny to a pound that she’s a goner. So my advice is that we concentrate on our own problems, and stop worrying about the late and very unlamented Norma Williams.’

  It was harsh advice but, when Ella thought about it, utterly pragmatic. Norma Williams was in all probability dead and if she wasn’t the chances of her finding her way in the black labyrinth of the sewers without the help of PINC were virtually zero. She’d done her best to fulfil the mission she’d been given: better now to look after herself and to do everything she could to get home in one piece.

  That evening – cleansed, coiffed and clothed in her really quite outrageous gown – Ella walked with Vanka up to the Resi’s grand entrance. She felt giddy with anticipation. She was going to an exciting place with the man she loved.

  There … she had admitted it to herself. It might be a ridiculous and stupid and impossible and nonsensical thing to have done but she couldn’t deny what she felt. When she was with Vanka she felt alive, more alive than she had ever felt in the Real World. And tonight, no matter what happened with Louverture, she was determined to enjoy herself.

  The nightclub was very busy. There were crowds bustling around the pavement outside trying to cajole the doormen into allowing them into the place: everyone in Berlin, it seemed, wanted to see Josephine Baker perform. Ella wasn’t surprised; in a Sector where everything considered even mildly outré was crushed under the dead hand of UnFunDaMentalism, the chance to witness such a decadent, prurient, yet officially sanctioned event made the Revue Nègre the hottest ticket in town. In fact the competition for tables was so intense that even Vanka, usually so confident in his powers of persuasion, seemed doubtful of his ability to talk his way into the nightclub.