by Viola Carr
I hurry on. Humph. Me and my big bleeding heart. Down here, where the weird lurks, you learn the rules or perish. It’s riddled with blind corners, doorways leading nowhere, trapdoors to spiked pits, springs with axes poised to fall, and everyone’s running a fakement, a swindle, some cruel or violent game. The Royal’s brass-arse Enforcers don’t dare venture here, coppers neither. The rookery keeps its own law.
Tonight, I’m headed a few blocks over from my typical haunts, across Crown Street and out of the effluent. I turn a corner, and from the foggy gloom springs a glittering rainbow heaven.
Dazzling gaslights illuminate the gay façades of flophouses, coffee dens, theaters hosting risqué burlesques. Mirror-flashed gin palaces shimmer like fairy-tale castles. The crowd spills onto the street, bringing cigar smoke and the glorious stink of gin. Soho Square, den of the dissolute. These places was once fancy town houses for strutting rich folk. When the livelier industries moved in, the quality turned tail, but Soho still carries itself with a corrupted elegance, like a glossy apple rotting on the inside.
Music ripples from dance halls, clashing into discordant din. Drunks shamble. A shifty-eyed carnie gang parade their clockwork menagerie, snarling brass lions and a teetering metal giraffe with a concertina neck. The swell mob’s out in force, too, teams of thieves square-rigged, fingers twitching into pockets and reticules, passing the loot to their accomplices before the mark kens it snaffled. I grab a wide-eyed country boy and hop a polka, jig-up, jig-up! He laughs and dances with me until I swirl away, his fumbling kiss on my lips and his pocket watch in my palm.
By a broken paling fence, a fight’s started, big ugly versus bigger uglier, swinging bare-knuckled inside a ring of cheering vultures. Not all shabby folk neither. Top hats and starched white shirts mingle with ragged neckties and bare chests beneath second-hand frocks. Chinamen, dark-skinned Turks, even Irishmen is welcome, so long as they flash the readies. An enterprising book-maker in a ragged navy officer’s coat is dashing to and fro, stuffing banknotes and collateral into his beat-up leather bag. His hat sports a tricolor cockade. Ain’t no Union colors, I’ll be bound, but a saucy bit o’ treason. It’s one o’ life’s happy accidents that the Frenchies’ flag and ours be the same color.
“Two bob on the big ugly bloke!” yells I. Someone shouts an obscenity, and I flip ’em a how-do and carry on.
“Fish, tasty fi-i-ish!” A lad with drooping hound’s ears clutches a clawed fistful of sardines. Now and again, he steals a bite. Brave little codger, creeping from the rookery’s shadows where weird folk go unremarked into a bright and ugly world where Royal Enforcers still jump their brassy arses from corners and haul you away on a whim.
I toss him a penny and grab some tasty fi-i-ish. Salty rot stings my tongue, foul but delicious. A bit like this world.
I bump shoulders with a lady of the night in a ragged Regency gown, earning a curse and a painted glare. She and her sisters in sin, on the prowl for prey. Mary-Anns, too, lads dressed as ladies, for gents what likes that sort o’ thing. In a stairway beside a penny-gaff theater, a brothel madam hovers, tapping a riding crop against her skirts to advertise the games her girls play. A half hour’s release in a greasy room for half a crown, a quick frig against the palings for a shilling. If you’re too strapped for that? Find a hungry street urchin who’ll blow you on her knees for sixpence.
Don’t get me wrong, it ain’t my trade. But it ain’t a bad life compared to dropping dead from overwork in a coal-burning plant or rotting your jaw off in a phossy match factory. Sometimes a girl lasts a good couple o’ years, fed and sheltered with all the gin she can swill, and now and again she gulps the old Romany crone’s sour herb drink and a glob of bleeding flesh spits from her insides and she carries on. Until she gets the clap or the pox or the flesh-crawling gripe once too often and wastes away, sores splitting her lips and a rotting itch inside what won’t never heal.
Them’s the lucky ones. In the shadows, darker shapes shift. Girls too old, too weird, or just not flash enough at the act. Starving, homeless, desperate. Any foul thing for pennies, be it banal or beastly, and when a bangtail turns up at dawnlight with her neck askew or her face battered in, it’ll more often than not be one of these sad sisters.
Just things to be used, and not good for much. Old meat, tossed into the gutter when a fellow’s gnawed his fill—and it ain’t them fine gents getting spat at in the street and called vermin, oh no. Them girls is like Lizzie Hyde. Fun while she lasts, but shunned for a shameful secret when Eliza’s done.
I ducks alongside a gin palace, where the big window shows a riot of drunken fools, dancing girls, life-or-death card games and punch-ups. My blood hisses, eager for gin’s gritty pleasure. But time enough for drunken foolery when work’s done.
The noise fades as I stride into a muddy yard. A plump Chinaman sits cross-legged on a mat by a hessian curtain. I toss him a silver crown. He nods gravely, speaks in his twanging language.
“Ni-how,” agrees I, and skips by into the den.
Smoke unfurls at eye level, a fug of uneasy dreams. Tasseled cushions pile the dirt floor. A square-rigged cove lies a-faint on a couch, entranced by spirits only he can see, a pipe dangling from limp fingers. From his pocket drops a gold watch, and a tiny girl snatches it with webbed hands. A woman sprawls face-down, drooling into the dirt. Maybe sleeping. Maybe dead.
A crooked wicker door beckons. I rattle it. “Open up, ratbrain!”
A sniggering green face with rodent teeth pokes out. “You again. He said to say he ain’t here.”
“Brilliant, you is.” I shove the green door-keeper aside. Inside, a fire pit stains the room bloody. Fearsome heat dizzies me, only a tiny hole kicked in one wall letting out the dream-smoke. A bearded cove in a dented top hat giggles, gnawing stubby fingers to the bone.
And here’s Remy Lafayette. Out of twig in a dirty brown coat, and deep in whispered palaver with a trio of shady coves at a wooden table. Pewter cups, a platter of suspicious-looking stew, a bottle holding a scant inch of emerald absinthe. I twist my ears but can’t make ’em out . . . then one laughs, his voice lifts, and it’s a language I recognize but don’t understand.
My palms itch. Holding court with dirty Froggies? All banished from London, so I heard, a pointless exercise seeing as only the law-abiding ones will obey.
A plump coin purse squats on the table. One fat Froggie with a purple beetroot mark across his face tests its weight, makes it disappear, and the three mooch away, hats pulled low. Business—whatever it be—is done.
Remy devours what’s left of the food, like he’s not eaten for a month. Polishes off the absinthe, neat. Ouch. Then slouches into a corner, alone.
A cauldron bubbles over the fire, tended by a shirtless raw-ribbed lad. Fleshy abortions of wings flop down his back. He stirs the pot, tentacled fingers wrapping twice around his wooden stick. He dips in a straw, thumbs the end, and splashes a drop of evil-eye green into the packed bulb of a tobacco pipe.
I choke, swamped by black memories of the night I overindulged on some ugly-arse fey brew and about got eaten for my trouble. They cook it from tears and heartache and darkfire dreams, and it’ll rot your wits and warp your wants to moldy horror. Malicious magic, no mistake.
Remy’s lounging on a tattered red velvet couch, now, pipe in hand. Dusty coat shrugged off, shirt open in the heat. Firelight gilds his skin, jewels of sweat glittering in his hair.
He draws smoke, ash flaring. Lets his head fall back, and exhales. Green smoke hisses upwards, a tricksy demon.
I knew it. He still ain’t given it up, not these three weeks. Can’t, for want of aught else to fight his affliction. I want to punch his handsome face. But my jaded throat parches. He’s mesmerizing, a dangerous fallen prince from a dark fairy-tale.
Which is why, ten seconds later, I’m still staring like a gobstruck idiot when Remy’s bloodshot glance trips up on my face.
Our gazes lock, unspoken words of loss.
He resumes his ceiling study
. “Go away, Lizzie.”
I march up and twist the pipe from his hand, just as he’s sucked in another lungful. Remy just exhales, evilsweet smoke tingling my face. I toss the pipe away, though that smoke waters my mouth with want. I yank him up, expecting a fight, but he lets me drag him out, and stumbles only a little as we march by the fat Chinaman and into the dark-lit street.
My arms prickle in the chill. But I’m too busy hurling Remy against the wall to care. “Bleeding Christ. It’s been what, an hour? Two? And already you’re up to your gills in it.”
“Told you before. S’medicinal.” Furtively, he searches the sky for any hint of moonglow. “I’m starving. Are you hungry? Let’s eat.”
I go right ahead and pretend the way that damp shirt licks his body—the way his lip quivers, for God’s sake, on the brink of wild beauty—ain’t of no interest to me. “Think you can cure your curse with a pipe of green? You’re crazier than I thought.” Cure comes out bitter as dead fish. He loathes his creature. What does that make me?
“Nothing else works.” A shadow of his stunning grin. “I can’t hold it in. I don’t sleep for days when it’s like this. The pipe, well . . . it calms the thing, for a while. I learned that in India, when it first started.” Crazy laughter, as if the very notion of calm is lunacy. “She kissed me, Lizzie. It’s three days early and she kissed me and it woke up.”
The thing. As if it ain’t part of him, and if he could, he’d wield a blade and carve it out, like the spoiled portion of a joint.
I try to stuff my indignation back down. There’s things more important than my bruised pride. I’ve seen what happens to him. It’s beautiful, the way a wild beast is beautiful. But it’s also hungry, bristling with blind animal rage. It bleeds. What if he starts changing without the moon?
But I can’t help it. “Are you even listening to the tripe you’re spouting? How can you lie to her?”
It’s out before I understand my own words. Not lie to me. He’s keeping secrets from Eliza. And that hurts, a keen ache in my heart that won’t ease.
For sure, I keep secrets from Eliza, too. When she wakes, she won’t recall what I done tonight, and if she does, she’ll laugh it off as a frightful dream.
But Lizzie’s supposed to be the bad egg in this sordid little pie. I’m meant to lie, to snigger with satisfaction at my despicable deeds.
He ain’t.
God’s bleeding innards. It’s me what knows the truth. Me what sees him, in all his tragic splendor. And still he wants her.
My skin stings green like poison ivy. It ain’t fair. Fuck me, if I could cut her out . . .
Remy shakes his head, mutinous. “This affliction? It’s not her world. She doesn’t belong here.”
I want to rake bloodied nails down my cheeks. I’m a person, too! Why can’t you SEE me? “So that’s all I am? An affliction?”
“You know I don’t mean that. Please, Lizzie, go. It’s not safe here.”
“Oh, aye? Why’s you here, then? Thought them Froggies was kicked out o’ London like plague dogs.”
Fog swirls, parting. Light from that swaggering moon slants silver onto his face. His hands shake, not so much you’d notice, but I’m standing right close, close enough to feel he’s trembling, feverish, losing control. I can taste that green absinthe fairy dancing on his breath. The air around us shimmers, a bubble about to pop.
“It’s official business,” he mutters. “Nothing I can share with either of you.”
Oho. My cunning twinkles bright. Wheedle it out of him, so we will. “Secret-squirrel tricks for the Royal, then? That metal-arsed countess got you trawling the pubs for sorcerers and runaway fey folk?”
“Lizzie, don’t ask questions. Please. I can’t answer them.”
“But—”
“It’s for your protection.” He cuts me off, flat and final. “I’ve already failed to save one woman I cared for. I shan’t fail again.”
My stomach hollows. Ouch. He means his wife. The dead one. At his own unwitting hand. Exit Lizzie, stage left.
But he don’t edge away. Don’t cease looking at me, even as his monster growls for my blood.
What would happen if his wolf erupted right now? Compelled by some dark magnetic force, I touch his jaw with one fingertip. His throat, that tender pulse. Find his collarbone, slip inside his open shirt . . .
He pulls my hand away. But his fingers crush mine, demented with wolf-fever, the drug, that greedy moon.
Guilt stings me, needle-sharp. I’m taking advantage . . . but hell, that ain’t never held me back before. “Remy, this is crackers. Why are we pretending? I want you, and I ain’t afraid.”
“I’ve noticed.” An intoxicated chuckle. “Believe me.”
“Then let me in.” Let me taste that wolf on your tongue, feel his dark jolt in my bones. Let’s put our unwanted halves together and make one.
His glower darkens. “I can’t.”
“What, because I ain’t no fancy lady?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a smart and beautiful woman, Lizzie, and I’m proud to know you.”
A damn fool grin pastes itself across my face like a wet pancake. I can’t help it. His golden brilliance pierces my soul, and all my vaunted wiles make like piss-scared rabbits and scarper.
He’s stripped me bare, sure as if he’d shredded my gown and left me standing naked. I can’t lie. I can’t joke. I can’t even flirt like a two-penny whore, not with this man. I can only be me.
So I sink my hands into that glorious chestnut hair, and kiss him. Like I’ve wanted to for weeks. His mouth is hot, he tastes of smoke and tears and delicious dark dreams . . .
He shoves me away, and for a second, his teeth flash bright, an instinctive snarl of fuck off.
I stumble, numb. I can’t feel my fingers, my skin. As if my vitality’s been sucked away.
“Lizzie. Good God. Forgive me.” Remy swipes a hand across his mouth, muffling a curse. His eyes gleam, an edge of wild wolfish gold that stirs dark mischief in my blood. His wolf-eyes was always blue, till tonight. Lucid. Human.
Now should I be afraid?
“Don’t want your ‘sorry,’” I blurt out. “Just tell me why.” But I’m already cowering inside. Christ, I want to hit the dirt and beg. I’ll go. I’ll stay. I’ll do whatever you ask. Just leave it unsaid, my heart unflayed.
But he’s steadfast, without a flinch. Nary a crack in his ironclad courage. He don’t even need to speak it.
You’re not her.
My stupid ears ring as if he’s punched me in the skull. The world shudders and grows, lurching into the yonder, and like Lizzie in fucking Wonderland, I’m three inches tall.
So pitilessly honest with me, as if he don’t know no other way. And yet he’ll lie to her. Kick his precious principles to the dust in an instant, if it means she’ll be safe. For her, he’ll sacrifice his own self.
But not for me.
God’s bleeding innards. I stare at my hands, my skirts, my muddied boots. I half expect me to be transparent. Fading, a ghost searching in vain for its long-decayed corpse.
Never really here at all.
“I mean it, Lizzie. I’m proud to know you.” He’s quiet. Gentle. Brutal as they come. “But I gave her my word, and it’s a promise I must keep.”
And how in God’s green hell do I argue with that?
My vision blurs, and a raw and rotting ache chews my heart. It’d hurt less, if I didn’t believe him. If I thought he were brushing me off for a lark, ’cause his habit’s to love girls and leave ’em.
If his god-rotted decency weren’t the reason I like him, for fuck’s sake.
I wipe a bland smile over my pain, and stumble away.
TINCTURA THEBAICA
IN THE STREET, THE CROWD SWALLOWS THE MARVELOUS Invisible Lizzie without a burp. Remy don’t follow. I don’t look back. Wouldn’t see a damn thing anyhow, not through these tears. God rot it, I never cry.
I trip over unseen feet, and pick meself up. Someone shoves me, a
black-coated blur. I shove him back, spitting a curse, and then we’re swept asunder by the crush, evil swirling melodies, the stink of sex and drugged breath, and all the fun other folks is having.
I wipe my face, fury and shame smearing like rank sweat. Remy’s rejection rips me raw. He’s just a man. Why’d I give a pigeon’s runny poop what he thinks? I’ve always been the lesser half, wallowing in dirt and decadence while Eliza keeps pure . . . but now a poxy itch plagues my flesh, this diseased notion that no, Miss Lizzie, you ain’t half a person after all.
You’re no person.
A shadow. An empty cipher. A figment of some ugly dream she’s having while tucked safely in bed. Come morning, she’ll recall fragments—my voice, liquor’s dark flavor, the starlit shock of a caress—and a shiver will rack her spine . . . then she’ll turn her face to the sun, and forget me.
And I’ll vanish. Ashes on the breeze. Like that shit-spitting letter to Todd what I stupidly forgot to burn.
Devil’s moldy guts, I’m part of her. Why does she HATE me so much?
Bodies bump me, I lurch left and right, stumble into a doorstep, and grab it to keep from falling. I’m tearing my hair in hanks. I’m wheezing, a gritty groaning sound that hacks my lungs to bleeding. Fuck me, I need a drink. A disgusting burnt coffee smell scratches my nose, and on its fur-spiked back rides another, deeply luscious aroma what waters my mouth: that sly seducer named gin.
I screw hot palms into my eyes, and when I let go, a sign lurches from fading stars: a yellow-painted sun on a black horizon.
THE RISING SUN.
Now, where’d I hear that before?
Ding-ding! The boxing bell rings in my head. Curiosity versus self-pity, a swift but brutal to-do that leaves self-pity groaning on the floor in a pile of bloody teeth. So this night never turned out as I planned? Don’t mean I have to pissfart about, weeping into my porridge like a jilted dolly.
I dust off my skirts, light a saucy twinkle in my eye, and stride in.
Promptly, I trip over a chair, and by a scant inch miss braining myself on the bar. All class, me.