Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1)

by Lori Williams

  I leapt upon the grunting soldier and tried to pin him to the ground. The weapon was still shaking in his hand, but Doctor P was ready with another magic sneeze, and as the grey cloud met with the snarling chin, my opponent took a well-deserved nap in the street.

  I couldn’t move or speak for about a minute. I just stared at the unconscious man with the gun, readying myself for his sudden revival. When it became apparent that he wouldn’t be returning to his senses anytime soon, I nervously looked upon the brothers in disbelief.

  “They’re…asleep?” I managed to ask.

  The Marins were all smiles and rosy cheeks.

  “Perfectly asleep!” Doctor D grinned.

  “You’re welcome there, Mister Pocket,” his brother added. “Seems we arrived on the scene not a moment too soon.”

  “You mean, you…you boys planned to…”

  “No, no, of course not. But we’re not so unlearned that we can’t spot a gent in a bind.”

  I slowly stood up and tapped my foot against both of the unmoving bodies.

  “What the hell did you do to them?” I gasped.

  “Sacred diamond dust of the East Indies!” Doctor D explained. “Mined, harvested, and shipped to our fair Britain by the indigenous shamans! Notoriously potent on the unwilling.”

  I chewed on the corner of my lip. “So it’s a sleeping powder?”

  Doctor P shook his head. “Well, if you want to put it in such base terms…”

  I surprised myself by smirking, but only for a moment. “Thank you,” I said, sincerely.

  “Our pleasure,” Doctor D said, also uncommonly sincere. He then politely retrieved the pistol I had thrown down to the brutes and placed it back in my hand. “Now, what else can we do to help?”

  I narrowed my eyes and looked up to where the city roofs met the horizon.

  “I don’t suppose you boys have gotten your caravan repaired, have you?”

  Minutes later, I was clinging to the fresh wood that had been nailed onto the…eh…”gasoline-exhausted” body frame of the Marins’ travelling shop as it sped through the night.

  “I suggest you keep a good grip, Mister Pocket!” Doctor D shouted as he steered the vehicle. “I’m afraid this isn’t quite the ride of luxury we’re used to providing!”

  I heeded the advice but urged the boys to pilot their caravan at as great of an acceleration as they could manage and to give little thought to the issue of my personal safety.

  I didn’t realize how well they would listen to me.

  “Gaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” I yelped as Doctor P poured bottle after bottle of….something…into the vehicle’s charred gas engine, resulting in the equivalent of thirty mules kicking along against the wheelwork.

  “Everything fine back there, Pocket?” he called out after knocking the last drops of some clear and quite volatile liquid into the machine.

  The wind caught my hat and lifted it from my head. I stupidly threw an arm out to snatch it, succeeded, but lost my balance.

  “Easy!” Doctor P said, reaching out and hooking elbows with me. “Now’s not the time to plant yourself in the ground!”

  “Agreed,” I said, white-faced and pulling my weight back onto the runaway caravan.

  “This might be a late time to ask this,” Doctor D shouted from his perch, “but where exactly are we headed?”

  “I’m not sure!” I yelled to him.

  “Well, that’s going to make things difficult!”

  “Yeah…” I admitted, yanking the brim of my hat down upon my eyebrows. “I’m looking for a very tall cathedral somewhere in the center of the city!”

  “Center of London?!?” Doctor P responded. “That could be any number of places!”

  “We could tour them all!” Doctor D suggested.

  “No!” I shouted over the wind, teeth half-chattering. “I don’t have the time for that! I must get there before daybreak!”

  “Daybreak?” Doctor P responded. “Why that’ll come in only—Brother! Look out!”

  The caravan careened over something small that I hoped wasn’t someone’s pet. We skidded off the established road and down a path of stone steps, through an open courtyard, and through a drained and thankfully shallow decorative fountain.

  A shortcut is a shortcut, I suppose.

  We carried forward in such a fashion until we arced up a small hill that fed into a larger district of London. Then, Doctor D quickly brought our ride to a jarring halt, knocking me to the street in the process.

  My feet hit the ground and I took a moment to convince my body that it had stopped moving.

  “Looks like this is as far as we can take you,” Doctor D shouted from his seat.

  “Good,” I mumbled, dizzily readjusting my eyeglass. “Wait, why?”

  Doctor P disembarked and brought my attention to the scene ahead. I saw it and frowned.

  “Oh,” I said sickly. “And there isn’t any other route?”

  “You wanted the center of London before daybreak,” Doctor P huffed. “This is the fastest way there.”

  “Doubt any other path will be any less guarded,” his brother added, climbing down.

  I frowned and peered over the scene before me. The residential area just ahead was absolutely littered with black coats. Magnates prowled the streets like stray dogs looking for the scent of garbage.

  Only the garbage was me.

  I shuffled nervously back a little and bumped into the Marins.

  “Don’t worry,” Doctor P said. “They can’t see us from here.”

  “You sure?” I replied. “I’m seeing them pretty well.”

  “It’s a matter of angles. See, from our vantage point, certainly the—”

  “Forget it. I don’t need the details. So that’s it, right? Can’t just ride through the streets.”

  “And remain unseen? No. Even if we hid you, I’m sure they’d search us. But you might get by on foot if you play it right. Look behind those buildings, where the fencing goes up. Doesn’t look like there’s much of a patrol, so if you can squeeze your weight through without being spotted, eh, might work.”

  “And that’s my best shot?” I asked.

  “Afraid so,” Doctor D shrugged, wringing his hands.

  I tapped nervously against the metal of my boots. The brothers noticed and placed sympathetic hands on my shoulders.

  “Fear not!” Doctor P proclaimed, the frantic gleam bouncing in his eye. “I have no doubt, Mister Pocket, that you shall be successful! For you are a man of great stuffing!”

  “Great…stuffing?”

  “Yes! Only the rarest human breeds are of such an ilk! And while the souls of many men only float and linger about in their fleshy sacks, yours, I can plainly see, is a great pedigree, developed and fluffed out through a metaphysical maturation uncommon to our times.”

  I scratched the back of my neck. “And that means…what?”

  Doctor D looked at me with a kind smile. “It means that we’d be honored to someday keep you in a jar.”

  I laughed weakly and shook my head. Those damned, daft medicine pushers.

  “Boys,” I spoke with weary amusement, “I don’t suppose your father was a migrant Frenchman, was he?”

  “Why?” Doctor P said. “Was yours?”

  I laughed again and pulled gently away. “Forget it,” I smiled in the dark. “It’s not important.”

  “Well, off you go, then,” Doctor D said. “And I’m sorry we couldn’t be of any greater help.”

  I looked over his shoulder at the paraphernalia hanging off of the brothers’ caravan and back at the street below.

  A flicker of hope turned over in my stomach.

  “You know something?” I spoke. “Maybe you can.”

  A few minutes passed.

  At the bottom of the slope, a pair of Magnates met at the center of the road and conversed. A third soon approached and brought attention to the Marins’ wagon as it slowly teetered into their view. The Magnates exchanged words and began to move toward it
.

  “Now?” Doctor D whispered, hunched atop of his vehicle.

  “Now!” Doctor P whispered, clutching to the back.

  “Godspeed!” I whispered, hiding in a bush. “And be careful!”

  “Don’t worry!” Doctor P said to me as he struck a match and put the crackling flame to a long, spiraling fuse. “The good man never dies unredeemed!”

  Terribly great splashes of sparks and smoke blossomed out in every imaginable direction as the brothers barreled down the great slope upon their mount of wood and steel.

  “G-good Lord!” I heard one of the Magnates shout, followed by the ricocheting clang of their gunshot against the wagon.

  “LONG LIVE THE KING OF ENGLAND!” Doctor D shouted from the top of his lungs.

  “LONG LIVE THE KING!” Doctor P shouted.

  The white-hot sparks spread into a zipping torrent that burned through the cold night sky and exploded with hues of, quite possibly, every color in existence.

  Fireworks. Turns out that the Marin boys were loaded with them, and they were all too happy to indulge me with an impromptu celebration.

  And here’s why…

  Peeking from where I kneeled, I watched the Magnates stop shooting and stare on in confusion as the caravan came to a halt in the center of the street.

  “Wh-what is the meaning of this?” one of them asked. I think the others chimed in, but I wasn’t in earshot to hear.

  “LONG LIVE LIFE!” Doctor D shouted as I watched his brother light another fuse. “IN ALL OF ITS FORMS!”

  Spark. Burn. Bam! More fireworks loudly clapped around the moon.

  And then it happened. Doors lining both sides of the streets opened and sleepy, confused residents of the great city walked out to complain about the noise. Until they saw the lights in the sky, that is.

  “Mama!” I heard a little girl shout from somewhere. “Look! It’s pretty! It’s a pretty party!”

  “CELEBRATE!” the Marins shouted to the bewildered onlookers. “IN THE NAME OF LADY ENGLAND, CELEBRATE!”

  Oh, and celebrate, they did. You would think those silver-tongued peddlers had struck the Sandman himself in the side with a blade, seeing how those people rose and gathered their loved ones.

  Sure, the soldiers tried to settle the crowd, but it soon became far too big, as the Marins started blowing their breath into musical instruments to the delight to everyone. People went and woke their families, took to the street, and just started dancing as if the world had no greater purpose.

  This was my chance.

  As bodies clogged the streets, jumping and pointing and shoving, I mounted my offense on the tips of my elbows and plowed a tight path through the mob. The sky was filled, absolutely splattered and smeared with pastels, as I gingerly walked right past the very men who were after my head. Blanketed by bodies, hidden behind flesh, Will Pocket went along his way.

  At last, I made it free to the other end of the street, the Marin brothers still carrying on for my benefit.

  I remember the last time I looked upon those boys. They were just sitting in the dark, atop their great caravan, feeding off of the clamor. Their wooden perch seemed to bob amongst the ocean of bodies as if it was riding them.

  The Marvelous Marins. Twin captains on the waves of madness.

  Glorious, wonderful madness.

  I put on a grateful and amused smile in their honor and left them to their celebration.

  I was soon jogging down an intersecting street and the smile was soon discarded. I wiped it clean off, using the sobering paranoia I felt as a handkerchief to dab the amusement off of my face.

  I hurried into the night, passing sleeping storefronts and dusty adverts as I moved. I had no idea where I was headed, but I was well on my way there.

  Sadly, that was when I met my next setback.

  I turned a few more corners, covered another straightaway, and moved from a cobbled path to one comprised solely of soft dirt. Suddenly, my foot lifted for another step and smacked against something thick and binding. I gasped, twisting my ankle into the ropelike obstruction, and tripped headfirst into a stack of abandoned crates that were slumped against the side of a building.

  I crashed down with the crates into the dirt, making a considerable bit of noise as I did. Almost immediately thereafter, a startled voice shouted out in response from somewhere unseen in the distance, demanding that “whoever you are, just stay put!”

  “Damn it,” I groaned, not in the mood for further interruptions, and tried to jump up into a quick sprint.

  I failed.

  The obstruction that had toppled me was still wrapped around my foot, and looking down, I saw that it was actually some sort of very thick, black electrical cabling. Or so I assumed, having very little knowledge of the workings of electricity. The black cable extended far off into the shadows and even seemed to crawl up buildings like a plant. Strange, I thought.

  I heard someone approach, assumably the owner of that startled voice from before. I quickly tried to free my foot, seeing that the wrapped cable was actually clenched onto some of the sharper metal corners of my unusual footwear. But of course, the moment I laid my hands on the coil around my ankle, I was greeted with a demanding voice.

  “Stop what you’re doing!” it said. “Whatever that it is you’re doing, stop it now!”

  I grunted, more aghast than outright fearful, and slowly lifted my hands in surrender.

  “I’m not doing anything,” I blandly said, looking at yet another Magnate making his rounds at this miserable hour.

  Lovely.

  I decided to try to talk things out, seeing as this one looked a bit too restless with his brandished gun. The last thing I needed right then was some shaky finger hugging its friend, the gun trigger, because some lout in a pair of gold boots went for something in his coat pocket.

  So I’d talk things out.

  Or at least I thought.

  “Listen,” I began to say, “let’s just take a moment, breathe, and be calm and reasonable about—“

  Suddenly, the ground swung up against my face, and that soft dirt smeared against my teeth. Air whooshed alongside my ears as I quickly spit out the grime. I was moving. The buildings on both sides of me were speeding past in a blur. It didn’t take me long to realize what had happened. The cable that was wrapped around me had been pulled, and by something powerful enough to yank me off of my feet. I was now being dragged face down through the streets of the city, catching spatters of earthy filth across my face. I was angry then, but I guess if that soft dirt had been hard cobblestone, my face would now be wearing considerably less skin.

  I could hear the surprised Magnate, now even more confused, shout and pursue on foot after me. But he couldn’t keep up and soon fell behind, disappearing in the dust.

  I lifted my chin as I was dragged backwards, eventually rolling upon my spine. I managed to lean up and clutch the black coil around my ankle. It wasn’t exactly easy untangling myself under the conditions, but I did it, at last ripping the cable away.

  Once free, I tumbled and rolled until coming to a blunt stop against a brick wall. Horribly dizzy, I curled into a lopsided ball for a moment, trying to regain my focus.

  When that didn’t work, I just turned over and started talking to the sky.

  “All right,” I muttered to the moon, “so I’m not making a great go at this thus far. So maybe we can work something out. If you’d be willing to hang around in the sky for an extra hour or two tonight, I’ll give you…eh…”

  I pulled off my once again beaten and bent top hat.

  “I’ll give you this marvelous gentleman’s hat. And I’ll throw in a spoon for free.”

  The moon said nothing, and I placed the hat back upon my crown.

  “All right…well, what else do I still have?”

  I took out the pistol I still possessed, and pointed it up at the glowing orb.

  “Here, a shiny, nearly new, little pistol.”

  I thought about it and took another
approach.

  “All right, glowball!” I muttered, gripping the gun with a greater tenacity. “You just stay put where you are and we won’t have any problems. You got that?”

  I stared up for a moment more, sighed, and shoved the gun back into my coat.

  “All right then,” I whispered.

  I wobbled to my feet and took a step. The buildings were still speeding around me, which was bad because I was standing still. Feeling sick, I fumbled around where I stood, and tried to brace myself against the glass window of a novelties shop across the way.

  I fell over myself, twisted around, and fell backward into the storefront. The thin glass shattered as my weight collided with it, and I dropped hard into a front display of new and wonderful products.

  “Ug.”

  I hurt. Bits of glass slit marks into my fingers and glittered like starlight where they landed. I closed my eyes, arms miserably widespread. My legs rested on hard boxes of screws and springs. My head made a home atop an arrangement of shiny, miniature music boxes. My open palms ached and reached out for something to hold onto. They pulled loose an accompanying display of modern, miniature musical cylinders. The rounded pieces of waxes rolled onto my stomach like the first shovelful of dirt tossed upon a broken man. I wet my chapped lips and tasted the airborne dust of that place. It seemed oh so fitting. I was blanketed in glorious music and I couldn’t hear a note of it. The cylinders had titles etched into their flat-topped end, and I read the words for momentary company.

  “A Lover’s Waltz.”

  “Rhymes for Children.”

  “Great Mother England.”

  “Far Too Early.”

  That last one caught me as familiar, and I remembered the tune that had played in the watch shop the night I met Dolly. “I’m singing this too early, something something…” You know, Alan, that Lady Jay song you recalled to me. Anyway, I took that cylinder in my fingers and for some reason stuck it in proper position on the miniature music box under my neck.

  You wouldn’t think that a man in my predicament, moving on a very gruesome time limit and direly needing to avoid attention, would be stupid enough to sit around in a broken storefront that he had just shattered and play a piece of music.