by Tom Becker
Grabbing a wheelchair from one of the bedsides, Jonathan sent it skidding across the floor towards the salamander. The creature turned round too late, and received a sharp blow in the legs as the wheelchair crashed into it. Harry followed up by cracking the drip stand over the back of his assailant’s head, sending the salamander crashing to the ground. Leaping up into the air, Harry trampolined from one empty bed to the other, keeping out of the salamander’s reach.
“Nice shot,” he panted, tossing the stand to one side. “Time to go, eh?”
Behind him, the salamander had already risen to its feet. Hearing Marianne cry out a warning, Jonathan turned to see the second salamander approach them from the opposite side of the ward, its black scales gleaming in the light.
“Follow me!” Jonathan cried, racing into the lift and hammering the button for the ground floor. As Harry and Marianne piled in behind him, he heard the creatures lumbering after them.
“Hurry up!” Harry shouted in frustration, as the doors closed agonizingly slowly. Behind the advancing salamanders, Jonathan saw Horace Carmichael crest the stairs and look straight at him. A flash of recognition crossed the policeman’s face, and then the doors cut them off.
There was no time for relief. After reaching the ground floor, they sprinted out through the now-deserted reception and lost themselves in the crowds of frightened patients milling around in the car park. In the distance, Jonathan could hear the familiar wail of a police siren. For now, they were safe.
“Where now?” Harry asked. “Back to yours?”
Jonathan nodded. “Now Carmichael’s seen me, it won’t be long before Department D comes knocking. We need to get home – and fast.”
3
As night fell, an icy death descended over Darkside. In the grand houses of Savage Row and Jackdaw Square, shivering masters angrily ordered their footmen to stoke up the fire in the hearth, while maids scurried upstairs to bury beds beneath layers of extra blankets; down in the Lower Fleet, families drew their rags around them and huddled together for warmth, aware that the weaker among them might not wake up in the morning.
Even in Blackchapel, the palatial home of the Rippers, freezing draughts haunted the corridors like ghosts. Outside, in the grounds, a vicious gust whipped through the air, harassing a procession as it tramped solemnly through the snow. The assemblage was dressed for mourning, the women clad in black dresses and gloves, their faces covered with lace veils; they dabbed at their eyes with small, black-edged handkerchiefs. The men wore fur coats over sombre three-piece suits, their hatbands fluttering in the breeze. Carrying lanterns to help pick out a path through the darkness, they followed slowly behind a creaking cart, upon which lay the cold, lifeless body of Thomas Ripper.
The procession headed towards a small circular building that nestled near Blackchapel’s southern perimeter wall, its roof crowned by a spiked cupola. Slender arched windows were set into the granite walls, while the open doors leaked weak light on to the snow outside. Blackchapel’s mausoleum had served as the final resting place for the first three Rippers. Now, with his successor decided, Thomas could finally join his forefathers.
In contrast to the pomp and circumstance of their coronations, funerals of the Rippers were simple, private affairs. Darksiders preferred not to dwell on the mortality that afflicted even their most auspicious citizens. The small crowd only served to highlight one glaring absentee – Lucien himself. The Ripper had been immersed in his throne room since the Blood Succession, leaving strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed. Whatever he was planning, he wasn’t sharing it with his Abettor.
With Lucien showing no inclination to take part in his father’s funeral, it had fallen to Holborn to lead the mourners. As he followed closely behind Thomas’s rickety bier, the Abettor was lost in thought. He had chosen to side with Lucien for purely practical reasons – believing that Marianne would prove too strong and wilful a ruler to manipulate. Yet Lucien’s mood gave him cause for concern, his sour unpredictability now at odds with the cool, calculating character with whom Holborn had first aligned.
Still, the Abettor reasoned as he ascended the marble steps leading up to the mausoleum, if gaining power caused the Ripper to lose his grip, it might well be to Holborn’s advantage. Played correctly, madmen could be as easy to manipulate as a pack of cards. He would have to be careful, though – move too soon, and Lucien would be on him in a flash. Though he was a cripple, the Ripper could transform himself into the Black Phoenix, a terrifying creature cloaked in shadow and fear that could tear Holborn apart in seconds. Direct confrontation had to be avoided. It was a situation that demanded the most delicate handling, the Abettor concluded as he entered the building.
Illuminated by a forest of burning candles, the Rippers’ mausoleum was an exquisite shrine to malevolence. The walls were hewn from rare red marble, the whirling patterns in the mineral resembling veins and arteries, as though the inside of the building were flesh and innards. Those who made the mistake of looking up to the ceiling were confronted by exotic friezes of murder victims, whose artistic merit was matched only by their anatomical accuracy. A series of low arches ran along the back wall, framing the separate entrances to the Rippers’ tombs. The centre of the room was dominated by a statue crafted from obsidian, a dark mineral famed for its piercing strength. It depicted a cloaked man with a dagger raised aloft in his hand, ready to strike: Jack – Darkside’s first, and most terrible, ruler.
The bier was brought to a halt underneath Jack’s statue, Thomas’s lifeless eyes staring up at his great-grandfather. As the mourners formed a quiet semicircle around the body, Holborn held out his hands in greeting, and began to speak.
“My dear friends, we have gathered here this night to witness the final rites for Thomas Ripper, our merciless and feared ruler. May—”
There was a loud crash, and the doors to the mausoleum were flung open.
“Hell and damnation!” a voice snarled.
Lucien Ripper hobbled up the aisle, ignoring the shocked murmur that greeted his entrance. Masking his surprise, the Abettor slipped into a low, graceful bow.
“Master Ripper. You honour both us and your father with your presence.”
Lucien tossed an uninterested glance in the direction of the bier. “My father would have quite happily strung me up on the Tyburn Tree. He cursed my very name. The maggots can have him, for all I care.”
Holborn delicately cleared his throat, and turned to the other mourners. “I think it would be for the best if the Ripper were left alone to pay his respects to his father. You shall have your chance after he is finished. Thank you all for coming.”
Stifling an undertow of complaint, the mourners stood up and began shuffling for the exit. As the mausoleum emptied, Holborn pushed the large doors shut, leaving himself and Lucien alone. The Ripper paced across the marbled floor, his limp more pronounced than ever.
“Is there a problem?” enquired Holborn.
Lucien gave him a cold look. “You could say that, Abettor. Carmichael just sent word from Lightside. He found my sister. Alive.”
“Why didn’t he take the appropriate measures?”
“He was stopped by Jonathan Starling.” Lucien limped over and pushed his face close to Holborn’s. “The boy you assured me was dead.”
The Abettor blinked with surprise. “Starling is still alive? I left him at your late brother’s graveside in front of a firing squad.”
“They missed,” said Lucien, through clenched teeth.
“My apologies, Master Ripper. It appears I underestimated the boy. He does possess a certain amount of . . . persistence.”
Lucien spat out a curse that echoed around the mausoleum. “Does it not occur to you, my valued Abettor, that if my sister miraculously rises from the dead and begins walking around Darkside, then my victory in the Blood Succession might just come into question?”
“Per
haps we might be able to turn this situation to our advantage,” said Holborn, scenting an opportunity. “If you tell the population that there is a conspiracy threatening the throne, we can keep the Bow Street Runners out in Darkside until they’ve rounded up all your enemies.”
Lucien sat down on the plinth beneath Jack’s statue, his face creased in thought. “You may have something there, Abettor. This would fit with a new tax I am going to introduce.”
Holborn frowned. “I don’t follow you, Master Ripper.”
Lucien walked over to the bier and looked down at his father’s body, his face stained with contempt. “Since I was a baby, my father told me that I was too weak to succeed him. There was no way that a cripple could run Darkside. He was a broken man after my brother’s death. I even believe he would have favoured Marianne over me – a woman.” Lucien shook his head. “But at the same time, the older my father got, the weaker his rule became. Do you remember the tales of Darkside’s first days, Abettor – when Jack the Ripper smeared the borough on to London’s map like a grimy fingerprint? Back then, its citizens were little more than slaves! Terrified of the cruel wrath of their ruler, they worked their fingers to the bone to enrich him. Since then, Darksiders have grown soft and pampered. They need a reminder of how tough life can be. My reign will provide that.”
“With a tax?”
“As you said, it is only right that Darksiders show their appreciation of their Ripper. From now on, everyone – men, women, children – will have to pay me five pounds a month. We could call it . . . a conspiracy tax. Anyone who fails to pay will be considered a conspirator, and dealt with accordingly.”
Holborn could barely believe his luck. There was no way that Darksiders would put up with such a brutal new tax! It sounded as though his suspicions were correct – Lucien’s mind really was slipping.
“This is both a strong and a wise course of action, Master Ripper,” he said, bowing.
“If I want your approval, I’ll ask for it,” Lucien replied icily. Raising his head, he called out: “McNally!”
There was a rumbling sound from beneath the floor of the mausoleum, and then the solid surface became suddenly fluid, a fountain of pebbles and stones cascading into the air. With a thunderous roar, the fountain solidified into the shape of an upright figure whose skin was composed entirely of masonry. Brick McNally was the leader of the Bow Street Runners; a full head taller than the other brick golems he commanded, he towered over Holborn and Lucien like a house.
“My lord?” he asked, in a deep bass that spewed out soot over the mausoleum floor.
“It turns out that my sister is still alive on Lightside – along with a boy called Jonathan Starling. They are grave enemies of mine, and a direct threat to the throne. If they so much as look at Darkside, I want to know about it. If they dare to creep back here, I’m relying upon the Runners to kill them. Do you understand me?”
McNally inclined his head, a movement that caused a loud grating sound. “I understand your order, Ripper. But the Blood Succession is ended. It is time for the Bow Street Runners to return to our rest in Blackchapel.”
“Listen to me,” Lucien hissed. “You’ll stay out on the streets until Marianne and Starling are found. I am the Ripper and my word is your law. And one other thing. I am introducing a new tax. Five pounds a head, payable every month. Anyone who refuses to pay is to be rounded up and placed in the Blackchapel cells. You will enforce this. Do you understand me?”
McNally nodded impassively.
“Good. Now get out of here and find Starling and my sister!”
The Runner dissolved into a ripple of stone that slipped back into the floor and rumbled away through the ground.
“He’s a capable man,” Holborn said. “He won’t let you down.”
“It would be good if I could say that of at least one of my men,” Lucien replied pointedly.
As Holborn watched Lucien limp away and out of the mausoleum, it was hard to keep the smile from his face. Looking up at Jack’s obsidian face, he winked.
“It has begun,” he said.
4
The bus inched its way north, weaving in and out of the early-evening traffic. While Harry and Marianne talked in low, urgent tones, Jonathan stared silently out of the window, ignoring the wailing of a baby and the music seeping out of the headphones belonging to the girl next to him.
As they stepped off the bus at the end of his road, Jonathan saw the lights burning brightly underneath the drawn curtains in his front room. They walked through the crisp darkness and up the driveway, their breath making frosted patterns in the air. Jonathan told the others to wait for him in the hallway, then entered the lounge.
The room had successfully drawn up its defences against the winter night: curtains and lamps warding off the dark as a crackling fire repelled the cold. Alain Starling was sitting in an armchair, quietly leafing through a book. At the table, Raquella was sewing, biting her lip in concentration. They looked up as Jonathan entered the room.
“Hi, Dad – sorry I’m late.”
Alain took off his glasses and clasped his hands together. “You missed dinner. Where’ve you been, son?”
“Me and Harry had to meet someone, and then we had to go to the hospital. . .”
“You didn’t have time to phone me and let me know?”
Given the daily danger he had faced in Darkside, Jonathan found it funny that his dad could get hung up about phone calls and missed meals. Secretly, though, he quite enjoyed it. Like the warm atmosphere of the front room, there was something reassuring about Alain’s parental concerns.
“I’m sorry. It really was an emergency – we had to get Marianne out of there. There were some creatures after her. It got pretty hairy.”
“Did you manage to rescue her?”
“I’d like to think that I would have made it out anyway,” Marianne said, striding into the front room. She flashed Jonathan a dazzling smile. “But I’m awfully grateful nonetheless. Pleased to meet you, Mr Starling.”
Alain calmly acknowledged Marianne, apparently unruffled by the appearance of a strange woman dressed as a nurse in his living room. Harry came in and plonked himself down alongside Raquella, who gave him a warning glance before returning to her sewing. Unperturbed by the maid’s frostiness, Harry gave her a beaming smile.
“I wonder what Carmichael told those coppers who turned up at the hospital,” he laughed. “Erm . . . no salamanders here. Honest! These guys are just really, really ugly.”
“He’ll think of something,” Jonathan said darkly. “When we fought Lucien at Greenwich, Carmichael went on the news and said we were environmental protestors. He’ll say anything if it covers up Darkside stuff.”
“This Department D has got me thinking,” Marianne said, perching on the arm of a chair. “You want to know if Carnegie’s alive, but going back to Darkside right now probably isn’t the wisest thing in the world. These policemen are right here in Lightside – wouldn’t it be worth asking them?”
“Excuse me, Mr Salamander,” said Harry mockingly, “but by any chance have you seen a friend of ours?”
“There are ways of asking questions, nephew,” Marianne said meaningfully.
“What – are you going to help us now?” asked Jonathan.
“After your rather grand exit from the hospital, I had a think,” the bounty hunter replied, “and concluded I might have been a bit hasty in refusing. I get the distinct impression that rescuing Carnegie would put my brother’s nose out of joint – which is enough reason for me to lend a hand.”
Harry clapped his hands together. “Sounds like we’ve got a plan, then.”
“Without wanting to butt in,” Raquella said, not looking up from her sewing, “how do you propose finding these policemen? I’m presuming they don’t advertise where their office is.”
The room fell into silence, and then Jonath
an cleared his throat awkwardly.
“But that’s just the point. We don’t have to look for them.” He crouched over by Alain. “Listen, Dad – there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
Alain carefully closed his book and placed it to one side. “Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this?”
“When we were at the hospital, Carmichael recognized me. He’s got my name and my details from that stuff with the Crimson Stone over the summer – it’s only a matter of time before he turns up here.”
“And I’m guessing that his approach may differ slightly from normal police procedure?”
Jonathan nodded. “The house isn’t safe, Dad. We need to get out of here.”
Alain gestured around the front room. “You want me to leave my own house?”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Are you?” Alain said, his voice rising. “We can’t go to Darkside because Lucien Ripper will have us killed. We can’t stay in our home because the police are coming after us with God knows what else in tow. Elias is gone. Theresa is still missing. Tell me, Jonathan, how is this going to end?”
It was Marianne who answered him. “Either we die, or they do.”
“You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t think much of the choices,” Alain snapped.
“I will forgive you,” Marianne replied calmly. “But you and Jonathan made your choices a long time ago. He didn’t have to go to Darkside, and you didn’t have to send him. You’re players in this game now – it’s too late to pull the sheets up over your head and pretend nothing’s happened.”
Alain looked as though he was going to say something back, but instead he simply sighed and got up from his chair.
“Where are you going, Dad?”
Alain turned in the doorway. “To pack. I’m presuming we won’t be back for a while.”