Fall

by Rod Rees

  To her astonishment, Maria found herself blushing: the man – the Daemon – was flirting with her! She brought her fan up in front of her face in an attempt to disguise how pleased she was by his flattery. ‘You are very gallant, Dean.’

  In truth Maria found herself somewhat nonplussed by Moynahan’s compliments and nervous about her own feelings towards the man: Visual Virgins were taught never to be moved by shows of affection but she was finding this difficult. Unconsciously she edged herself closer to Moynahan, pressing herself against him in a show of coquettish appreciation as they sashayed around the room.

  ‘With everybody being masked, won’t you find it tricky spotting Shelley?’ asked Moynahan.

  ‘No, Dean: his aura is unmistakable. Poets are swathed in lilacs and other pastel colours whereas most of the men here are surrounded by much earthier hues.’

  For five minutes they promenaded, Maria ever on the lookout for Shelley. But look as she did, there was neither hide nor hair of the man and she began to worry that Villiers’ intelligence about him attending the bawdy house might be wrong … but then she was enjoying herself too much to care. Flirting was fun.

  Again Moynahan brought his mouth nearer to her ear. ‘You are being watched, Maria. There is a girl to your left who is studying you with a great deal of intent. It seems the women gathered here tonight don’t welcome such lovely competition.’

  Maria looked towards the girl Moynahan was speaking about. Despite the mask the girl was wearing she recognised her immediately: pictures of Catherine Walters were regularly carried by the news magazines. ‘That’s Catherine Walters, or Skittles as she is more affectionately known.’

  ‘She’s famous?’

  ‘Very. She’s the foremost whore in all the Demi-Monde, the most famous of all the grandes horizontales – the highest class of whore – and, despite the restrictions imposed by UnFunDaMentalism, the most fashionable woman in the whole of the ForthRight.’

  Catherine Walters must have noted Maria’s interest in her, which she rewarded with an acknowledging bob of her head.

  ‘She is very beautiful,’ Maria gushed, ‘and her dress is magnificent.’ And it wasn’t just her dress that marked her out as someone exceptional, her aura was quite remarkable too, a heady concoction of pinks – signalling inspiration, optimism, intelligence – and indigos – which showed she had strong metaphysical and sexual abilities. If she’d been born in Venice, Skittles would have made a powerful Auralist.

  ‘Enough of Skittles,’ Moynahan whispered in her ear. ‘It’s Shelley we need to find.’

  ‘Oh, we have, Dean,’ Maria said sotto voce, ‘that’s him standing beside Skittles, next to that fat man.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘His aura is unmistakable.’ Maria frowned. ‘But how are we to arrange an introduction?’

  ‘I think the dress you are wearing will be introduction enough.’

  In this Moynahan was correct. A moment later Rosie materialised at his side. ‘Excuse me, sir, but Mr George Rowley wonders if you and Miss Steele would care to join him for a drink.’

  *

  Despite his being all high fashion and hauteur, Moynahan liked Percy Shelley – or George Rowley as he was calling himself. Certainly there was something effete about him, but there was an impish twinkle in his eye that hinted of hidden depths. He was a handsome devil too and this combined with a shock of curly hair and the stylish way he was dressed ensured that Shelley was a man born to break a lot of female hearts.

  But Moynahan’s liking for Shelley was matched by his detestation of the man standing by his side, who seemed to have attached himself to the poet. He had disliked John Wilmot on sight. Wilmot was large and fat and seemed to spend his time looking down his nose at the world. Moynahan also hated the way he was ogling Maria.

  ‘So you are a heavyweight champion, Comwade Moynahan,’ breezed Shelley as he quaffed his champagne. ‘It is a wonder I have never heard of you.’

  ‘I ply my trade in NoirVille.’

  ‘Bashing Shades about, eh?’ guffawed Wilmot. ‘Good stuff. Buggers need a thrashing now and agin to keep ’em in their place.’

  Shelley was obviously a little put out by Wilmot’s boorishness. ‘Please, I pway you, do not take Comwade Wilmot’s levity too sewiously.’

  ‘Don’t listen to George,’ boomed Wilmot, ‘you must take my levity very seriously. The vanquishing of the UnderMentionable races is not something I take lightly, especially now, if His Holiness Comrade Crowley is to be believed, the triumph of UnFunDaMentalism is soon to be achieved.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Maria.

  ‘Ah, beauty speaks and angels listen. A little bird has told me, Miss Steele, that, in a matter of days, invitations will be issued to all good UnFunDaMentalists requiring them to gather in Terror Incognita at the end of Fall for the Ceremony of Purification, a ceremony which will mark the reincarnation of the Pre-Folk and the elimination of the racial contaminants that have poisoned the Demi-Monde since the Confinement. Then the Aryan race will stand triumphant and the Shades and the nuJus will have been scoured from our world. You’ll find yourself out of work, Moynahan: after the Ceremony there won’t be any Shades for you to pound and pummel.’

  ‘I am surprised, sir, that the Ceremony is to take place in Terror Incognita,’ said Maria. ‘Surely that is a forbidden world … forbidden by ABBA, that is. No one who has ventured there has ever returned.’

  ‘Being a Quartier Chaudian, Miss Steele, you will be unfamiliar with the power wielded by His Holiness Aleister Crowley. He is confident that he can lift ABBA’s embargo on Terror Incognita.’

  Maria gave a rather forced smile. ‘Then am I to presume that following the Ceremony all women will be obliged to follow UnFunDaMentalism’s doctrine of Biological Essentialism, that our role will be prescribed by the motto “Feeding, Breeding and MenFolk Heeding”?’

  Wilmot guzzled the rest of his Solution. ‘Of course, that is the natural order of things, women being physically, psychologically and intellectually the inferior gender.’

  ‘You are very disparaging of women, Wilmot,’ observed a smiling Catherine Walters. ‘I am of a mind to implore Mr Moynahan to help me defend my sex’s honour.’ Here Skittles took Moynahan by the arm and pressed herself against him. Moynahan didn’t object: she was a beautiful woman.

  ‘Honour, my dear Skittles? I suspect you dispensed with that fatuous encumbrance a long time ago. And as for my belittling women, why, all educated persons understand that ABBA placed women in this world in order that they bend their knee to men.’

  ‘I weject your foul conjecture, Comwade Wilmot,’ objected Shelley. ‘My opinion is that women are the supewior gender, being that they ain’t cursed by MALEvolence. Better they had command of this sowwy world, then perhaps we would not have to suffer the malicious mismanagement of men.’

  Wilmot gave a dismissive chuckle. ‘Having such an aberrational respect for women, Rowley, I would question what you are doing in a bordello.’

  ‘I seek love.’

  ‘Then you will not find it here! I believe women to be the worst of the sexes in that they are the repository of the most pernicious of HumanKind’s weaknesses … an inability to love. Women, you see, have no passion, gripped as they are by the steely hands of irrational reason, that ignis fatuus, which leads them to desire only what society informs them they should desire.’

  Shelley smiled. ‘I am minded to quote the verse of a fwiend of mine, a Count Maddalo, who says that “Man’s love is of man’s life a part; it is a woman’s whole existence.”’

  ‘You have met such a woman, one who has truly embraced love?’ sneered Wilmot.

  ‘I have. She is my deawest, my most constant love, with soul meeting soul on lovers’ lips. And though we are parted she wemains a beacon in the darkness of the world.’

  Wilmot slapped Shelley on the back. ‘Come, George, I will not have you lapse into melancholic reflection on a love lost. Forget love and embrace my philosophy: when I see a
woman and the heat is within me, I must have her.’

  Skittles made to protest but she was interrupted by a smiling Mary Jeffries. ‘And wot is this I ’ear, Mr Wilmot, of ’aving her?’ She nodded towards Maria. ‘Are you about to get a filly under starter’s orders?’

  ‘That would be a delightful occurrence, Mistress Jeffries, but first I must look after my friend here. Rowley has come to your establishment in search of love …’

  ‘My, my, Mr Rowley, there are any number of girls here tonight who would leap at the chance of loving you. And are we not graced by the presence of Mistress Steele, a ride of rare beauty, ’oo her Master, Mr Moynahan, ’ere, wishes to be introduced to the world of the rake and the blood?’

  ‘Miss Steele is indeed a woman of incompawable loveliness,’ admitted Shelley.

  ‘But beauty is nothing if it is not enjoined with a willingness to submit.’ With that Mrs Jeffries pushed Maria towards Shelley, pressing her against him. ‘So will you not use her, Mr Rowley? Will you not instruct her?’

  ‘If Miss Steele is willing.’

  ‘Miss Steele is very willing, Mr Rowley,’ replied Maria, accompanying her answer with a teasing smile.

  ‘Then I am honoured, but my sensibilities are such, Mrs Jeffwies, that I am unable to instwuct in public, being of a mind that lovemaking ain’t a spectator sport. Perhaps I might have some pwivacy?’

  ‘As you wish,’ snorted an obviously disappointed Mary Jeffries. ‘There are curtained booths alongside the salon, each furnished with everyfing you might need to exercise the girl.’

  1:08

  London, the Rookeries

  The Demi-Monde: 88th Day of Summer, 1005

  My time as a fugitive persuaded me, of necessity, to ponder on the subject of secrecy. And what this cogitation has led me to conclude is that secrecy is anathema to the development of civilised behaviour. The use of secrecy – aided and abetted by its cowering, reticent confederate, privacy – allows the darker aspects of HumanKind to fester and flourish unseen. Denied the liberating light of public scrutiny and criticism, these dark inclinations grow, gaining in power and strength until they envelop our more liberal thoughts and destroy our selfless instincts. No doubt my critics will protest that it was secrecy that enabled me to escape the clutches of the Checkya, but I would retort that it is secrecy that enabled such a foul and fetid organisation to flourish in the first place.

  The Fall of the ForthRight: Percy Bysshe Shelley, FreeWill Press

  A very happy Shelley ushered Maria into the booth and drew the curtain closed behind them. ‘And now, Miss Steele—’ he began but he was interrupted by Maria placing a finger firmly against his lips.

  ‘I am afraid I must leave you unsatisfied tonight, Mr Shelley.’

  The man gawped. ‘Why do you call me by that name? I am George Wowley—’

  ‘Shall we stop this play-acting, Mr Shelley? I have come to the Rookeries to find Norma Williams and it is my belief that you are the very man to assist me in this endeavour.’

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I am Sister Maria, a Visual Virgin, though here in the Rookeries I use the nom de guerre Maria Steele.’

  Shelley gave a wry smile. ‘Well, Miss Steele … Sister Maria … whoever the Hel you are, I must disappoint you. My admiwation of Norma Williams is such that I will not compwomise her safety by leading you to her.’

  ‘Very noble, Mr Shelley, but you should understand that it is her very safety that is uppermost in my thoughts. I have come to the Rookeries in order to lead her to sanctuary.’

  Shelley shook his head. ‘Nonsense. You are, most pwobably, a ForthWight cwypto … a damned attwactive cwypto, but a cwypto nevertheless.’

  ‘You have to trust me, Mr Shelley, and by doing that you will preserve your own life.’

  ‘My life?’

  ‘You have been rash, Mr Shelley. As a Visual Virgin I am able to see Wilmot for the ne’er-do-well he is. I suspect he has lured you here tonight with the intention of betraying you to the Checkya.’

  ‘Balderdash! It’s impossible for Wilmot to suspect my weal identity.’

  ‘In this surmise, Mr Shelley, you are mistaken. When Dean and I arrived here tonight we were informed that a Checkya steamer was parked close by. At the time I thought nothing of it, but now I am certain that they loiter, awaiting a signal from Wilmot to raid this establishment and arrest you.’

  Shelley stood silent for several seconds as he weighed up what to do. ‘How did you know I would be here?’

  ‘George Villiers told me so in a note he sent me this afternoon.’

  ‘Did he have any message for me?’

  ‘Yes, he said to tell you:

  Chameleons live on light and air:

  Poets’ food is love and fame.

  Trust in the girl beauteous and fair,

  To lead thee to the Daemon’s lair.’

  ‘“To the Daemon’s lair” … that is indeed the pass-phwase George and I had agweed. Vewy well, Miss Steele, for the moment I will give you the benefit of the doubt. So tell me what’s to do.’

  ‘We must prevent Wilmot from raising the alarm.’

  ‘But how?’

  *

  Five minutes later it was a rather red-faced and mussed Shelley who emerged from the booth and beckoned urgently to Wilmot. ‘Wilmot, I have a wequest of you. It seems that Miss Steele has appetites that one man alone is unable to satisfy. She has a mind to twy her hand at twoilism. This being the case, I was hoping that you might be inclined to oblige her.’

  ‘Troilism, eh? I thought she looked a willing wench when I first espied her but I had no idea that this was her persuasion. But I will warn her that the role I assume will not be that of the voyeur but more of the enthusiastic participant.’

  ‘I think Miss Steele will be delighted to hear that, Wilmot,’ said a smiling Shelley as he led Wilmot to the alcove where Maria was standing seductively in the corner, her dress untethered so that her breasts were bared.

  ‘My, my,’ said Wilmot, ‘you do surprise, young la—’

  It was the derringer that Shelley pressed against his ear that shut him up. ‘Supwise doubled, eh, Comwade Wilmot? Utter a cwy or make a sudden move and I will be obliged to plug you.’ He looked over to Maria. ‘I would be gwateful, Miss Steele, if you would examine Comwade Wilmot’s wallet.’

  Maria did as she was asked and found a card inside identifying Wilmot as a member of the Checkya.

  ‘What a bounder you are, Comwade Wilmot. How many Normalists did you condemn to earn yourself this?’

  ‘Enough,’ sneered Wilmot, ‘but it is a total that will soon be added to. This building is now surrounded by Checkya, Shelley. There is no escape.’

  ‘Then what we need is a diversion,’ answered Maria. ‘I propose, Shelley, that you leave me here and apprise Moynahan of the situation. Tell him that in a few moments I will create a kerfuffle that will give you both an opportunity to slip away.’

  ‘And what of you?’

  ‘I will trust to the distraction of unadorned beauty.’

  ‘And Wilmot?’

  ‘For that I must rely on your good offices, Shelley.’

  Shelley nodded, then drew back his fist and socked Wilmot hard on the jaw. The man sagged to the ground.

  ‘Oh, well done, sir,’ exclaimed Maria as she completed the unbuttoning of her dress, revealing more of the perfect – and perfectly naked – body beneath.

  Shelley eyed her appreciatively. ‘You know, Comwade Maria, I ain’t in any gweat wush. Perhaps we could—’

  ‘If you, sir, have quite finished your perusal of my charms,’ snapped Maria, ‘I would suggest you go and speak with Moynahan. My own advice is that your escape would be best accomplished over the rooftops. Tell Moynahan we will rendezvous back at our hotel.’

  *

  A reluctant Shelley gifted his derringer to Maria and, with a last languid look at her naked bounties, exited the booth. Once he had whispered an explanation regarding the situation to Moynahan
, the man nodded his understanding and then looked nervously towards the hall’s entrance. Shelley understood his trepidation.

  ‘Yes, the pwoblem we have, Comwade Moynahan, is if it comes to a fight, we ain’t armed.’

  ‘Do you not think I have a splendid bottom, Mr Shelley?’ asked Catherine Walters.

  Shelley spun around on his heel, cursing himself for having forgotten about Wilmot’s woman. ‘I think it is twuly delightful, Miss Walters, unfortunately this ain’t quite the moment when I am best able to—’

  ‘Oh, I think this is an excellent moment, Mr Shelley,’ the girl simpered. ‘Our mutual friend George Villiers always says that it’s quite amazing what a man might find hidden beneath a woman’s bustle if he takes the time to look.’

  Shelley beamed a smile, drew the girl towards him and then delved under her skirts. There was a revolver hidden there. ‘Wemarkable,’ he said as he explored further.

  ‘There is only one pistol hidden there, Mr Shelley,’ Skittles scolded.

  ‘Best be certain, eh?’ replied Shelley with a wink.

  Unfortunately his fondling was interrupted by the screams of ‘You bastard! You animal!’ coming from a half-naked Maria as she emerged from the alcove. ‘You are a beast and a cad, Wilmot,’ she yelled and with that she ran through the hall, pushing and shoving laughing people aside as she made for the exit. Every eye followed her, including Shelley’s. It took a yank on his arm by Moynahan to remind him why Maria was doing what she was doing.

  Giving Skittles a quick peck on the cheek, Shelley led Moynahan through a side door and hurried up the staircase beyond. On the top landing it took him just an instant to get his bearings, shoulder his way past one of the doors lining the corridor and into the bedroom beyond. It was a small room, only two strides from door to window, a window which Shelley had open in a trice. He looked out. ‘We’re in luck, Comwade Moynahan. If we slide down the woof, it’ll bwing us to the house next door.’

  The sound of feet pounding up the stairs and shouts of ‘Make way for the Checkya’ interrupted any further explanation.