Blackjack

by Tom Becker

  There was a heavy thud on the window. Jonathan spun round, ready to run, only to see a tree branch banging against the glass in the wind. This was ridiculous, he told himself sternly. After all he had been through in Darkside, all the terrifying places he had been to, he was getting spooked in Mrs Elwood’s kitchen. He tried to imagine what Carnegie would say if the wereman could see Jonathan now. Nothing complimentary, he thought ruefully.

  He was lighting the first candle when a shape detached itself from the darkness behind the kitchen door and fell upon him. A fist swung through the gloom, connecting with the side of Jonathan’s head. He fell backwards, crashing into the sideboard and spilling the candles across the linoleum. His attacker wrapped his hands around his throat, suffocating Jonathan in a stench of stale alcohol and body odour. A rough, unshaven face loomed in front of him.

  “Where’s the Stone?” the man hissed.

  Pinned against the sideboard by his assailant’s bulk, Jonathan was struggling to breathe. “What . . . stone?” he gasped.

  “The Crimson Stone,” the man said dully. “I followed it here. I can feel it. It’s all around us. Give it back to me.”

  The pressure on Jonathan’s windpipe was unrelenting. Bright starbursts cascaded before his eyes. As he tumbled towards unconsciousness, it sounded as though the man was talking to him from the top of a large well, rather than inches from his nose. Dark waves closed in over Jonathan’s head.

  “Leave him alone,” a voice called out sharply.

  The man whirled round. With the vice-like fingers removed from his neck, Jonathan collapsed to the floor, tears of pain running down his face. Woozily, he looked up and saw a small silhouette standing before him. It was Mrs Elwood.

  “Magpie, isn’t it?” she said calmly.

  “How do you know me?” the man spat back.

  “You don’t remember me?” Mrs Elwood said quietly. “After all the years we spent together in the Wayward Orphanage as children? You picked on me for sport – made my life a misery. You and your friend Jacobs.”

  “Jacobs was no friend of mine,” Magpie snarled. “He sold the Stone!”

  “I know,” Mrs Elwood said. “He sold it to me.”

  As his head swam, Jonathan wondered if he was hallucinating. It couldn’t be Mrs Elwood talking. The Starlings’ closest family friend, the little woman who had been a second mother to Jonathan throughout the years Theresa had been missing. And now she had the Crimson Stone, Darkside’s most powerful talisman?

  Magpie’s eyes glinted in the darkness. “You’ve got the Stone? Where is it? Give it to me.”

  “As you wish,” she replied. “Horace?”

  The kitchen walls trembled, and Jonathan watched almost dreamily as the bricks in the far wall peeled themselves back into an archway. A deep red light emanated from the room beyond, casting a fiery outline around Horace Carmichael. In his hands, the hunchback was carrying a square piece of masonry, slightly larger than a brick, with a glowing dark-red stain.

  Magpie blinked with surprise. “I know you, hunchback. You were at the Wayward Orphanage too. You and your freaky friend here.”

  Carmichael nodded. “It’s fitting, don’t you think? After all Lily and I suffered at your hands, the taunts and the beatings we endured, that it happens to be you two who are responsible for placing this treasure in our hands – and for giving us the instrument with which we can take our revenge.”

  “Stop talking!” Magpie howled. “Give me the Stone!”

  “With pleasure.”

  Horace Carmichael lifted up the Stone and whispered something under his breath. A spear of stone shot out from the wall, skewering Magpie through his back and chest. The man grunted, his body stiffening. Blood trickled from his mouth, and he slumped over the spear.

  Nothing moved for a time. Then the moon drifted out from behind a cloud, drawing a bright tide of light across the kitchen. The first thing it revealed was Magpie impaled upon the stone spear, still standing, his eyes wide with shock. Jonathan’s stomach churned at the sight of the puddle of blood collecting beneath the body. Then the moonlight touched on Horace Carmichael, and the look of deep satisfaction in his eyes.

  “Mrs Elwood?” Jonathan called out finally, swallowing awkwardly.

  “Yes?”

  “What’s going on?”

  The dwarf came and knelt down by his side. Her hands were trembling, and tears glistened in her eyes. She held his hand.

  “I am so sorry,” she whispered. “Believe me, I am.”

  “Sorry? You saved my life! What do you mean?”

  “She means,” an imperious voice replied from the doorway, “that when I’ve finished with you, you’ll have wished she had let you die.”

  Everyone in the room looked up, startled, only to see the broad figure of Aurelius Holborn standing in the doorway.

  21

  Raquella drummed her fingers on the table, half wanting to scream with frustration. She had spent the entire day cooped up in Vendetta’s townhouse, restlessly pacing the corridors whilst Sam slept and Harry flicked idly through the vampire’s books. The young journalist had been unusually quiet. Raquella had been expecting him to bring up their kiss, if only to tease her about it, but he had said nothing. She found herself wishing for Carnegie and Marianne’s return – even Vendetta would have provided a welcome distraction.

  Clicking her tongue with irritation, Raquella went upstairs to check on Sam. The boy hadn’t stirred since his fit the previous night; no more cries echoed around the townhouse. Raquella hoped the rest was doing him good. Quietly pushing open the door, she slipped inside the bedroom. And gasped.

  Sam’s bed was empty and the window was wide open, curtains billowing in the draught.

  “Harry!” cried Raquella.

  He was at her side in a second, swearing at the sight of the empty bed. “I should have seen this coming,” he said grimly.

  “Sam can’t go outside now!” Raquella protested. “The curfew’s on – if the Runners get their hands on him, there’s no telling what they’ll do to him! What is he thinking?”

  “He’s not thinking, Raquella,” Harry replied. “His mind has been poisoned.”

  “Ripper knows how long he’s been gone. He could be anywhere by now.”

  Harry poked his head out through the open window. “It might be easier to find him than you think. Look.”

  Crossing the room to join him, Raquella saw that a recent snowfall had laid a perfect white carpet over the deserted streets. Where the street lamps cast an orange glow on to the ground, a single trail of footprints was visible, leading from the drainpipe beneath the window deeper into Darkside.

  “Do you think we can track him?”

  “No one else is going to be stupid enough to be out on the streets,” replied Harry. “Finding Sam would be the least of our problems.”

  Raquella hurried downstairs to the coat stand and donned a furred coat, hat and gloves. Harry watched her thoughtfully.

  “What is it?”

  He hesitated. “Look, I know you’re worried about this lad, but are you sure it’s wise going after him? More than likely he’s come to grief already, and we’re not going to help anyone by getting caught too.”

  A tart response came to Raquella’s lips, only to die away at the look of concern on Harry’s face. Instead, she said softly: “Sam’s all alone, Harry. And he’s not well. I can’t just leave him out there.”

  Harry sighed. “Let me get my coat. I hear Blackchapel cells are pretty nippy this time of year.”

  They stole out through the front door and into the snow, ducking from doorway to doorway, breathing easier in the shelter of shadows. Sam had left a clear trail for them to follow, his footprints weaving back and forth across the road like a drunken ant. Darkside was deathly quiet: the clank of industrial machinery had been silenced; the backstreet screams of u
nfortunate victims no longer peppered the air. Shopfronts were shuttered; in homes, curtains covered windows like shrouds. The atmosphere was as taut as a garotte.

  After half an hour of mouse-like scurrying, they found themselves in the noxious tanning district in east Darkside. Sam’s footsteps were getting further apart, suggesting that he had broken into a shambling run.

  Raquella suddenly tugged Harry’s sleeve and pointed up into the air. “There! I see him!”

  Harry looked up. Above the row of tanning factories ran a large brick viaduct, borne by a series of serpentine arches that planted themselves amongst the warren of buildings like giants’ feet. On the side of the viaduct, a small figure could be seen climbing determinedly up a ladder towards the top of the bridge.

  Cupping his hands together, Harry yelled “Sam!” at the top of his voice. Though the echo of the cry lingered dangerously in the street, the boy didn’t stop climbing.

  Raquella shot Harry a sideways glance. “Was that a wise idea?”

  “Probably not,” he replied defensively. “I guess we’ll just have to go up after him.”

  As curtains began to twitch in nearby houses, they hurriedly cut through a side alley to the base of the viaduct, and the access ladder that stretched up towards the summit. Harry craned his neck as he searched out Sam, a dubious expression on his face.

  “It’s a long way up,” he said. “You’d better go first.”

  “Harry Pierce,” Raquella hissed, “there is no way you are climbing beneath me. I am wearing a dress, remember?”

  “But then if you fall, I can catch you.”

  “Well, if you fall, I’ll catch you,” Raquella retorted. “Deal?”

  Harry looked as though he was about to argue, and then thought better of it. Raquella followed him up the ladder, but it didn’t take long for her to regret her decision. The metal rungs were perilously slippery to the touch, and as they climbed, the wind tugged mischievously at her clothes. Above her, Harry moved lithely and effortlessly up the ladder, aided by his Ripper-given gift of agility.

  Raquella was silently cursing his nimbleness when, in stretching for the next rung, her foot slipped beneath her. She screamed, dangling in mid-air, only the desperate grip of her left hand preventing her from plummeting down to the streets below. Then a strong hand reached down and grabbed her, hauling her back on to the ladder.

  “Are you OK?” asked Harry.

  Raquella clung to the rungs, breathing heavily. “Yes,” she said eventually. “Thank you. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

  For the rest of the climb, she concentrated solely on her ascent: first one hand, then one foot, then the other hand, then the other foot. Finally there were no more rungs to reach for, and she was able to pull herself up on to solid ground.

  As she caught her breath, Raquella took in her surroundings. The viaduct cut right through the heart of Darkside, heading towards a dark tunnel carved into a hillside to the west. Beyond the edge of the bridge, slanting roofs formed a haphazard mosaic, dotted with gaping black holes like missing teeth where disrepair or bad weather had torn away the tiles. With hours to go until sunrise and the lifting of the curfew, the twisting alleyways were empty. Even so, from this height there was a certain grimy grandeur to the borough.

  A diminutive figure was trudging along the bridge in the distance – Sam. His progress was looking increasingly laborious, and it wasn’t long before they caught up with him.

  “Sam!” Raquella called out. As she clutched his arm, she felt goosebumps beneath his thin shirt. He stopped reluctantly, barely seeming to recognize her. “What on Darkside are you doing up here?”

  “Following the Stone,” Sam replied dully. “It’s this way.”

  “You must be freezing! Why don’t you come back to the townhouse with us?”

  Sam shook his head. “Need the Stone. Going to get it.”

  “Now, come on, Sam—”

  “Hold on, Raquella,” Harry said suddenly. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe we shouldn’t go back.”

  The maid shot him a questioning glance.

  “Look, we don’t know what’s happened to Carnegie and Marianne,” Harry continued, counting off his fingers. “Jonathan’s gone. Ripper only knows where Vendetta is. For all we know, it could just be the three of us left. And what can we do to stop Lucien then? But if Sam can track down the Crimson Stone, that might even up the odds a bit, don’t you think?”

  “But we’ve no idea what the Stone can do, Harry! Or who’s got it now!”

  “Think about it, Raquella. What have we got to lose?”

  The maid tapped her foot thoughtfully, then shook her head in resignation. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into these sorts of things.”

  With a smile, Harry draped his coat over Sam’s shoulders. “Lead the way, then, lad,” he said kindly.

  Sam turned away and carried on along the viaduct, the oversized coat dragging through the snow. As they followed behind him, Raquella slipped her cold hand into Harry’s. If it hadn’t been for the threat of danger hanging over them, and the icy wind lashing their skin, the moonlit walk would have been almost picturesque.

  At one point the snow thinned, and Raquella stubbed her toe on something solid. Biting back an oath, she stooped over and brushed away the snow.

  “There are train tracks down here!” she said, surprised.

  “Really?” replied Harry. He frowned. “That’s funny – I’ve never seen a train run up here. Maybe it used to be part of the Dark Line. You wouldn’t believe some of the reasons why bits of that line closed. I worked on a story once for the Informer where this zombie conductor— Hey, what is it?”

  Raquella had stopped and looked back, the wind blowing strands of hair across her face.

  “Can you hear anything?” she asked.

  “Probably just the wind,” Harry said. “It’s pretty wild up here.”

  They walked a few paces further before Raquella stopped again. “No, I can definitely hear something. Listen.”

  Straining his ears above the keening wind, Harry could just about make out a faint roaring sound. He peered into the darkness.

  “Can’t see anything,” he reported.

  “There’s definitely something coming this way,” Raquella said nervously. “Look at the tracks.”

  The rusty rails had begun to quiver beneath their feet. The roaring was getting louder. Harry’s heart quickened. Looking back now, he could see a shape moving quickly along the viaduct.

  “I thought you said you’d never seen a train up here!” Raquella shouted.

  “That’s not a train,” Harry replied grimly.

  The surface of the viaduct was churning up behind them, forming a peak in the centre of the bridge that looked like a shark’s fin. It was hurtling towards them at great speed.

  “It’s a Runner!” yelled Harry. “Come on!”

  They broke into a headlong sprint, adrenaline coursing through their veins. Dimly aware of the danger, Sam had broken into a faltering run, his coat falling from his shoulders as he stumbled onwards. They looked down at the ground as they ran, trying to avoid tripping over the treacherous railway sleepers.

  The western hillside rose up before them, only a hundred metres away now. Behind them, the Runner ploughed remorselessly through the ground, sending rivets popping into the air like champagne corks.

  “It’s gaining on us!” Raquella cried.

  “Try and get to the tunnel!” Harry shouted back. “Maybe we can lose it there.”

  The ground rippled beneath their feet as the Runner closed in for the kill. Risking a glance over his shoulder, Harry made out a face amidst the tidal wave of bricks, its mouth yawning open.

  When they arrived at the mouth of the tunnel, they were greeted by a cavernous archway that rose high above their heads. As the Runner exploded out of the ground, two
giant arms reaching out for them, they dived headlong into the darkness.

  22

  After tumbling into the dirt, Harry rolled over and sprang quickly back to his feet. He’d expected the Bow Street Runner to be bearing down upon him, but to his surprise he saw that it had halted at the mouth of the tunnel, as though blocked by some invisible wall. In a rage, the Runner punched the ground so hard that its fist crashed through the ground, showering pebbles and rocks everywhere. Then it dived beneath the surface with an angry roar, the viaduct trembling as the Runner disappeared from sight.

  As the adrenaline drained from his system, Harry was suddenly aware of a throbbing pain in his head and a nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach. Scanning the dingy tunnel for Raquella and Sam, he spotted the maid lying face down by the side of the tracks.

  “Raquella!”

  He raced over and knelt down beside her. The maid was dazed, a bruise on her forehead where she had banged her head. She stirred as Harry cradled her.

  “Are you OK?” he asked.

  “Just about,” she replied faintly. “What happened to the Runner?”

  “I don’t know,” Harry replied. “It couldn’t follow us down the tunnel.”

  “We’ve crossed over to Lightside,” said Sam. The little boy was sitting cross-legged on the train tracks, a distant expression on his face. “The Runners are a part of Darkside itself – they can’t exist beyond its borders.”

  “How do you know?” Raquella asked.

  “They’re linked to the Stone. They miss it too, just like me.” Sam got to his feet. “We should go. It’s not that far away now.”

  The little boy walked away down the passage without another word. Gently helping Raquella to her feet, Harry set off after him.

  The tracks sloped sharply downwards as the tunnel burrowed deeper and deeper into the hillside. This far from the surface, there was a wild timelessness to their surroundings that made the teenagers feel small and insignificant. Jagged stalactites hung down from the ceiling, an armoury of giant rocky daggers. A cascade of water gushed out from a spring, picking out a glinting trail of minerals amidst the rocks in its path. Labyrinthine spiders’ webs draped the walls like tapestries, while the cavern’s recesses reverberated to the sound of scuttling animals.