Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1)

by Lori Williams

  “So what's the plan now?” I said. I was leaning on a wall with my hands in my coat. The Doll was still in the back of the carriage and Kitt was hunching under the wheels, wafting smoke away from something box-shaped that was attached.

  “I think it's broken,” he said.

  “So do I.” I tensed my shoulders a little. “But that's not what I asked.”

  “Hand me my wrench.”

  It was by my feet so I kicked it to him, careful not to spring a blade out into my heel. The Doll sat patiently for a little while then leaned out of a window at me.

  “Is he fixing it?” she asked.

  “He's trying.”

  “You don't sound very confident.”

  I shrugged. She leaned her head further out the window.

  “Kitt-Kitt?” she called out.

  “Yeah?” he replied, scrambling around beneath the vehicle.

  “Are you fixing it?”

  “I'm trying.”

  “How much do you know about fixing?”

  “I'm not sure. I'm kind of just feeling my way through this.”

  “Lovely,” I muttered. The Doll shot me a sour look.

  “Don't be cranky!”

  I faked a grin. Her face further soured and she dipped her head again down at Kitt.

  “Kitt-Kitt?”

  “Yeah?” he said after a loud clank.

  “Are you okay down there?”

  “It's not terrific. But I'm okay.”

  I remembered the Marin boys and their steam inductor. “Do you know anything about these contraptions, Doll?” I asked hopefully.

  “No,” she said, boggled. “Why would I know that?”

  “I don't know. Earlier. The steam inductor.”

  “Oh. That is a completely different thing.”

  “Oh. So you don't have, I don't know, some imprinted catalogue of mechanical or mathematical information hardwired into your—”

  “That would be silly,” she said. “Like something from a story.”

  “Oh,” I said, getting sick of the word. “You hear a lot of stories, Doll?”

  She surprised me with a childlike face. “I love stories.”

  Another clank, another billow of black smoke. Kitt gagged and started sputtering. I hurried to the ground and offered my hand. He took it and dragged himself out. His face was dirty.

  “You look ruffled,” the Doll said.

  “I couldn't fix it,” Kitt said with a cough. “I don't know how. But I got it off.”

  He held up a dingy little box, covered in wrench whacks. Kitt coughed once more and a puff of black smoke came out of his throat.

  “You don't see a lot of black smoke anymore,” I commented. “With the steam and all. Reminds me of my childhood. Used to come funneling out of everywhere. It's kind of nostalgic.”

  “But it's dirty,” the Doll said.

  “Dirt can be nostalgic.”

  Kitt coughed up another puff of black and stuck out his tongue. “You can have it!”he said, wiping his forehead. “I think steam vapor would taste better.”

  “Did you learn anything down there?” the Doll asked.

  “Well...it's electric.”

  “We know,” I added. “It says so on the side.”

  “Yeah, well, there was smoke and this box thing is pretty singed. I'm guessing some spark caught fire.”

  “How do we fix it?” the Doll said.

  “I don't know. I'm not really a mechanic.”

  “Fix it! Fix it!”

  “I'm sorry!”

  “I say we ditch it,” I offered. “I mean, we can only ride around for so long in a stolen carriage until someone takes notice. I mean, with those big letters on the back.”

  “LEWELLEN'S ELECTRICS,” Kitt read aloud. “Huh. Now that I say it, I feel a little sorry for this Lewellen chap.”

  “Don't,” I said.

  “Hmm...okay. Let's ditch it. It's empty enough back here. Probably be awhile before someone comes across the thing. Get your belongings.”

  “So we're just going to leave it behind?” the Doll said.

  “Yeah,” Kitt said. “Why not?”

  “It just looks so sad sitting there. All alone and broken.”

  “We don't have many options,” I told her as I reached into the vehicle for my bottle on a sling. She clenched her teeth on the puffed bit of synthetic that constituted her lower lip and mulled it over.

  “I suppose...” she said at last.

  “Then let's go.”

  “Where?” Kitt said.

  “Out of the city. We can't stick around while this hunt is on.”

  “Pocket, we are marked enemies to Britain. That's all of Britain! I'm sure they'll be looking for us outside of New London.”

  “Not as quickly. They think we're in the city now, don't they?”

  “Yeah. Jonesy was pretty adamant about—”

  “Then we need to get out.”

  “Pocket, if they think we're in the city, then they're probably going to start guarding the exits, right?”

  “Damn...yeah. Most likely. We'll need disguises or something.”

  “Yeah. Wait. No.”

  “No?”

  “They don't know what we look like. Not yet.”

  “True, which means the first thing they'll do is try to find out.”

  “Okay. So what' s our next move?”

  We thought in silence. It was the indispensable genius of the Doll that struck first.

  “Breakfast?” she said.

  Food is an amazing thing if you take the time to stop and think it over. It really is. Sure, it's a necessity, it fuels our simple bodies, pushes us through each day. And sure, it's pleasurable. Men dying in the street and men sitting in grand dining halls will both salivate when offered the right bit of it. But there's something more to it. Prime example. I once told a love story about a lost sailor and a pair of mermaid sisters to this lonely old woman who was so affected by the telling that she gave me a quarter of a Christmas ham. Swear on my life. Said she had no others to share it with, could I spread it around. I nearly proposed marriage on the spot. Perhaps if she had been a bit more my type...eh, I joke. The lady had eyes, real eyes, eyes deep and full and aged. Any lady with eyes like that would have no need for a young fool like me. I graciously accepted the ham and told her I'd send a good amount of it to the old sailor should we cross paths. She smiled and said she would like that and to be sure give her regards. A year later, 'round about Christmas, I'm trying to forget how hungry I am in some bar, and a doorman asks if my name's Pocket. I say it is, and the gent hands me an envelope, tells me it's from an old lady who knew I'd be there. I've got to stop announcing my drinking habits. Anyway, I open it up and inside's just this letter that says: “Seasons wishes to you and yours and the gentleman sailor. I do hope he enjoyed the ham.” And as I thought about it, the taste of that ham suddenly re-entered my mouth. The sweetness of the glaze over the salty flesh. I thought of those aged eyes that must've watched it cook, that must've tended to the meal with such delicacy. And I realized that it was perhaps the greatest ham I would ever taste. Such a fitting gift for a fictional sailor. I told the man who relayed the message to return the following response: “Your kindness has touched him. He no longer roams.” I thought it sounded pretty, but the doorman looked at me as if I were mad and said that it was not his duty to deliver letters. So it's not the best ending to the story. Still, food can take on—

  “Pocket, a question.”

  “Yes, Alan.”

  “If you were in a bar trying to forget hunger, why didn't you simply use your drink money for a meal? Or were you leeching?”

  “You're missing the whole point of this, but no, I never leech! Yes, I was penniless, so I was just sitting around sipping soda water, pretending it was something with more of a kick.”

  “And you never got a message back to the woman?”

  “Afraid not. Never saw her again.”

  “Tough story. Also kind of...makes you hungry.�
��

  “Exactly! That's just what I'm saying!”

  Food can take on a mysterious significance if you let it. Even the thought of it brings about fond feelings. It's appetizing, it wets your tongue. Another nice thing about eating is that it makes you take time out of your day and just stop. Stop, and sit down, and have a bit of this, and take a swig of that, and just chew for a while, you know. Chew, and keep your mouth closed, and just sort out all of your problems in your head.

  Which is good, because what I needed most in the world after finding myself suddenly on the lam in London was a moment to think. There was just the matter of acquiring something to chew.

  The wind slapped me in the face as I asked the obvious question.

  “Are you sure about this, Kitt?”

  “Just let me handle it,” he said.

  Kitt had led us to a rather exposed street dotted with shops. I was a bit nervous, but he was more confident, repeatedly telling me, “They don't know what we look like yet. It's too soon.”

  He had led us to a dingy little shop of questionable repute, a place called South Street Mechanics and Services. Inside was a lot of rust and a lot of grease and a lot of man sitting pudgy on a high stool behind a counter. He was coatless and his suspenders dug deep into his stained work shirt.

  “Mornin'...” he exhaled through the side of his mouth.

  “Hiya!” Kitt said, jogging up to the counter. Dolly and I stood cautiously back by the front door. “Do you remember me?”

  “Were you the fella in last week with the bathtub?”

  “No.”

  “Then no.”

  “I have something for you to look at.”

  “Is it a bathtub?”

  Kitt looked about the room, as if wondering how in Creation he might have snuck a bathtub into the front room without the proprietor seeing it.

  “No,” Kitt said. “It's not a bathtub.”

  “That's good, boy. We don't deal in bathtubs.”

  “All right.”

  “Fella come in last week with a bathtub, I say to him, 'Fella! What do you expect me to do with a bathtub?'”

  “Can you please take a look at this?”

  “I mean, unless it's a mechanical bathtub or something of the like! Not that such a thing exists, but the idea of dragging the thing down from his mother's to a bleedin' mechanical merchant, why it just...hey, hey. What's that you've got there?”

  “I pulled this off of an electric carriage. What can you give me for it?”

  “Oooh...not a lot, kid. Not a lot. It's all knotted and burned to Hell. Doubt it still works.”

  “True...it probably...doesn't. But can't you give me something for it? I mean, for the scrap?”

  “Sorry. It's pretty much worthless.”

  Kitt took a deep breath and looked back at me and the Doll. I could tell he was considering something he had hoped not to.

  “Okay,” Kitt said to the man in a lower tone. “I've got one other thing for you to look at.”

  He took from his jacket a piece of equipment. It was shaped like a tin can and had a few tubes hanging off of both ends. The proprietor made a long whistle.

  “Now this...” he said, inspecting the piece. “This I could use, I could sell! Does it work?”

  “It should,” Kitt said quietly.

  “Fantastic! Very nice! Where'd you get this off of, eh? Old biplane? Airship?”

  “Zeppelin,” Kitt said.

  Air turned to thick cement in my throat.

  “Very nice, very nice!” the man in the suspenders said, his hammy, clammy hands squeezing on the tubes. “I can only spare a few pounds, but they're yours, kid.”

  “Thanks...” Kitt muttered quietly.

  I watched, stunned, as the man paid Kitt and the clever fox awkwardly stashed the money in his jacket. Without making eye contact, Kitt passed me and Dolly and exited the shop. We followed and I was soon quickening my pace down the brick-lain street.

  “Hey!” I said, grabbing Kitt's shoulder. “What was that about?”

  “I got us food money,” he said without tone. “You want to complain about it?”

  “You're damn right, I do! Where did you get it?”

  “You heard it inside.”

  “I heard zeppelin. And I'm waiting for you to correct my poor hearing.”

  Kitt crossed his arms and gave me a deadpan stare. After a minute, he said, “You going to keep waiting?”

  My blood boiled. “Are you insane, Kitt?!? The zeppelin, the sirens, that was you?!? The panic and the 'don't worry, Pocket. I'm sure it'll all work out.' We could've been killed! The whole damn flock of tourists could have.”

  Kitt scoffed the insinuation away. “No one was in danger.”

  “You made the balloon ship upset?” the Doll asked, joining us. “Why would you do that?”

  Kitt's defensive stare turned into a frown.

  “I didn't want you two to know. I found the engine room of the ship while stretching my legs. It was unguarded so I helped myself.”

  “Kitt-Kitt...” the Doll said, sounding slightly betrayed.

  “I'm telling you, we were in absolutely no danger! It's a needless part. The ship just went a little frantic for a moment, switched on the sirens. It's...well, it's what I do for money.”

  “Now I get it,” I said. “A knife to cut bags. A wrench to cannibalize ships.”

  “Needless parts!” Kitt kept saying, “Needless! Fine, yes. You've revealed me. You think I really make enough as a pickpocket to stay alive? Do you know how little people actually carry down the street on a given day? And with our beloved King's paranoia in full force...'Self! Country! Security! Protection!'...everyone's thinking twice before walking around with their coats full.”

  “Seems like the right idea,” I said bitterly.

  “Leave me alone, Pocket! It's not like I do it for fun! We can't all get Christmas hams for a day's work!”

  The wind slapped me again.

  “Hang on. Hang on.”

  “Now what?”

  “How did Kitt know about your ham story?”

  “Oh. Yeah...I guess he couldn't have. Ignore that, then.”

  “You making this up, Pocket?”

  “Of course not. Just pieces of talk. Sounded like something Kitt would say. Let me recheck my memory...”

  “Oh, you temperamental writers...”

  The wind slapped me again.

  “It's not like I do it for fun!” Kitt snapped. “But ship parts bring in money. What am I supposed to do, starve?”

  I sighed. “No...I guess not.”

  “I swear, I've never put anyone at risk doing this. You've gotta believe me.”

  “Fine. Sure. So what are you, one of these men of future industry? A regular mechanist?”

  “Not really. I memorize the parts with funny shapes and cut them out.”

  “Ah. And is that why you wear the pilot get-up? Blend in?”

  “Sort of. It helps.”

  “Surely that fox-eared cap can't help. Not exactly subtle.”

  “That...” Kitt said, squeezing his eyes in defense. “...was a gift.”

  He seemed bristled, so I didn't push it further.

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Can we eat now?”

  The Doll nodded in agreement. Kitt finally let himself grin again.

  “Thought you'd never ask.”

  Now that we had available money once more, we wanted to get as far from the main streets of the city as possible. We crawled around for awhile and were fortunately able to find a corner breakfast shoppe in the depths of New London that served us some poached eggs on toast. They were a little rubbery, but I wasn't about to criticize the meal. It just felt good to be eating again.

  “I could've cooked them better,” the Doll said, rolling the food around on her synthetic tongue.

  We finished and spotted a Magnate snooping around. Careful to stay out of his path, we waited in the alley behind the shoppe. When the way was again clear, we discussed our optio
ns.

  “Disguises,” I said.

  “How?” the Doll inquired. “We don't have any money left.”

  “Three eggs and toasts,” Kitt said, shaking his head. “Swipe a perfectly shiny engine part and it only gets you three eggs and toasts.”

  “Okay. So we can't buy clothes. What then?” I said.

  “Can't exactly steal any,” Kitt added.

  “Why not?”

  “Think about it. Are we just going to walk into a store, toss some coats and hats over our shoulders—”

  “And a proper dress,” the Doll added.

  “...and a proper dress, and just walk out?”

  “You're right,” I said. “Let me think...okay! Forget the disguises! We just need to lie low!”

  “Lie low?” Kitt repeated.

  “Yeah! Somewhere where we wouldn't be expected to be hiding.”

  “Like at a friend's place?”

  “Too obvious. But perhaps a reoccurring acquaintance...”

  I laughed and snapped my fingers. I had it. With great gusto, I leapt upon a pile of stones and then, sun over my shoulder, wind through my bangs, I raised a liberated fist to my companions.

  “My fellow outcasts,” I announced. “I know what we're going to do!”

  Kitt looked at Dolly. Dolly looked at Kitt. They both looked at me and blinked.

  “That's fine,” Dolly said. “But you don't have to be so intense about it.”

  The sun dipped behind a cloud and the wind died down. I spat and climbed down from the rubble.

  “Alan? Hey! Alan!”

  “Hold on. Sorry. I'm back. Dropped something back here. What'd I miss?”

  “I just made a great stand and took the momentarily fearless helm of leader.”

  “Oh. Is that all? I've seen you try to do that.”

  “But it's important.”

  “Nah, I doubt it. Just skip on.”

  “You bartenders have no passion for panache.”

  “I have no passion for repetition.”

  It took a few hours, but we moved by foot down to a building that stood near the banks of the Thames. Nice little place, built just a few years ago and covered in brass, even on the outside. The Gilded Goose, it was called.

  “Another bar?” Kitt said, peering from where we hid. “Don't you do anything besides drink, Pocket?”