by Peter Oxley
As it became clear that Rachel and I were fast developing into something more serious, Roger became more distant and aggressive toward me. This behaviour intensified until one day he followed and cornered me in a dark street, far enough removed from their neighbourhood to ensure that we would not be disturbed.
“What do you want?” I asked, my brash confidence dented by the sight of the knife held casually in his left hand.
“I want you to leave Rache alone,” he said in a sullen, slurring voice. “The likes of you aren’t welcome round ’ere.”
“I do not bow to the likes of you,” I said. “Now get out of my way.”
He grinned. “I hoped you’d say that.” He lunged at me with the force and speed of a boy who had learnt to fight the hard way, on the streets. He feinted with his right fist and swept the knife into the space where he expected me to dodge. His grin and almost relaxed manner showed how easy he expected his victory to be, a hardened street fighter against a closeted toff.
However, he did not know that I had had a tough physical education myself, an upbringing borne of countless beatings by cowards twice my size. Compared to them, this oaf was a mere pup.
I stepped into him and within the arc of his swinging knife. His right fist caught me across the back of my head but I barely noticed, using the momentum it lent me to bring my forehead crashing down smartly onto the bridge of his nose. He yelped and dropped the knife, clutching at his bleeding face. I kicked the blade away into the shadows and then felled him with a fist to his stomach, knee to the groin and then a final kick to his torso. He lay at my feet, groaning, as I leant down to speak to him. “You leave us both alone, you understand? Try this on me again, and I swear I shall not be so tender with you.”
With that I ran back to Rachel, my heart beating wildly, to advise her of what had happened. Whilst her first instinct was to rush to Roger’s aid, I managed to convince her otherwise and that furthermore we had to hasten our plans to elope. I wanted to stay with her but she convinced me that our best chance of success lay in a continued pretence of normality. Besides, it was me that Roger clearly held a grudge against; he adored Rachel too much to harm her. We agreed that we would rendezvous that night, at midnight, and from there we would make our escape to the Continent.
That night, after an hour’s wait and no sign of my love, I began to fear the worst. My breath shortened and my heart pounded as my mind raced through a thousand scenarios, each one more terrible than the last. Indecision racked my entire being; whilst I knew that I should stay in the agreed meeting place, I needed to search for her. Finally, my restlessness won the day and I set off toward her neighbourhood at a sprint, eyes wide and checking every shadow as I went.
There was no sign of her along my route or in her street and I eventually found myself standing outside of the tenement which her family shared with five others, toying with the idea of knocking and asking to see her. I needed to know that she was safe and well, even if she had been held back by her father on some pretext, but I was also in command of enough of my wits to realise that the act of checking could just tighten the net round her further. I resolved to wait until morning, when she would come out to begin her chores, and retreated to find a suitable place to hide.
As I did so I heard a sound from an alleyway close by and peered in to see a hunched figure, sniffing into his hands. I was about to move on and give the wretch privacy when the hands dropped to reveal the bruised and weeping face of Roger. He grinned at me with wide, tear-filled eyes. “I hope you’re happy now,” he said in a broken voice. “You made me do it. If I can’t have her, neither of us can.”
My heart sank and the world seemed to become much heavier and slower, my heightened senses bestowing a terrible and wretched illumination all around us. “What have you done?” I said.
He held up his hands, which were covered in blood—her blood. I perceived a form behind him and in that instant I knew exactly what had happened, that my one hope of happiness had been cruelly extinguished at the hands of that thuggish idiot.
The red mist descended with a crashing force, taking over my limbs and throwing me forward with a roar. My grief lent a gruesome power to my actions and I did not even try to check myself, exulting instead in the opportunity to mete out my own justice on this scum.
What followed was a blur of hatred and blood, punctuated by the sound of fist and foot on flesh. I dropped into a fugue state, focused only on that grim task, and it was several minutes before I realised that my victim was no longer moving. I stepped over the motionless lump and collapsed in front of Rachel’s body. The first thing I noted was the knife sticking out of her neck, followed by her dull eyes, staring up to the heavens.
I had no idea of how long I wept over her body, but eventually I came to my senses and realised that it would not look good if the police found me with blood-stained hands standing over two corpses. I turned and ran.
***
“I wish that I could tell you that I am sorry for what I did,” I said. “But the truth of the matter is that I would not change a thing if the situation presented itself once more. That is not to say that I am without remorse. I have paid for my actions that night in so many ways, over and over again.”
“You left the country,” said the old woman.
“Yes.” I had initially fled to Cambridge and my brother, ever the pragmatist, determined that my most sensible course of action was to disappear until the search for the murderers had died down. He handed me some of our parents’ inheritance—as the elder he was my guardian as far as the money was concerned—and arranged passage for me to France. Thankfully, no-one had seen me commit the deed, and precious few in the area knew me except for my face and Christian name, so I was reasonably comfortable that there was little risk of me being apprehended as long as I stayed away from the area where the crimes had been committed. Given that I had no prospect or interest in furthering my academic education, and nothing by way of a trade, a Grand Tour overseas to broaden my mind and keep me away from domestic troubles seemed like the obvious answer.
“I am not going to insult you by saying that being exiled overseas was a terrible punishment; I missed home but nonetheless had some incredible experiences. No, my main penance has been every time I close my eyes; I still see their lifeless bodies in that alley and am tortured by the knowledge that I caused both their deaths—one through inaction, the other through mindless action. More recently I have been plagued by visions of a much more... tangible nature.” I shuddered and took a deep breath, my mind once again filled with visions of Rachel’s decaying form stalking toward me through the Aetheric mist. I was dimly aware of a ringing sound and then the front door opening and closing. “I was unruly and rebellious but have never truly been a bad person; I certainly never considered myself capable of murder. That is a burden I have to live with.”
“Have you killed since?” she asked quietly.
“That is not a question I wish to answer,” I said, eyes fixed on my empty glass.
As if on cue, the door to my study opened and Mr. Andrews, the lawyer, burst in. “Ah, Mr. Potts, I did not realise you had company,” he lied, eyeing the old woman suspiciously. “We have not had the pleasure,” he said to her.
“You’re right, we ain’t,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously.
“May I have a quiet word?” he asked me, gesturing for us to go outside the room. I acceded, glaring at him as he shut the door.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” I snapped. “Watkins would have told you I had company and was not to be disturbed. I really—”
“Yes, I was advised of your visitor and the nature of your conversation,” he said. “And I must say I do not approve.”
“You do not approve?” I shouted at him. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Watkins dart around a corner and out of sight; I resolved that he would pay later for his indiscretion. “Of all the insolent—”
“Get ahold of yourself, man,” he said with a cold firmness
, the words hitting me with the force of ice cold water. “Do not forget who created all of this for you—and do not be so naive as to say it is a result of your own hard work and talent. You are here by the grace of your employer, a grace which can be removed just as easily as it was bestowed.” Noting that I was by now suitably chastened by his words, he adopted a more genial tone. “A lot is riding on our venture, far too much to be put at risk by idle gossip or the needless re-emergence of skeletons from whatever closets you have amassed over the years. We do not expect you to be pure and evangelical, just to not actively court scandal. Do you understand?”
I nodded, rendered speechless by his words and the threat of my valued patronage being withdrawn.
“Now,” continued Mr. Andrews, ever the businessman. “Let me deal with this... lady.” He opened the door and stepped up to where the lady was still seated, glaring at her with a cold detachment.
“Good woman,” he said. “My client is often prone to flights of fancy, a product of his profession as a writer. Anything you believe has been said should therefore be treated as such: mere works of fiction which he was rehearsing on you as a resident of the rookeries. I ask you now to leave. Good day to you.”
She smiled, the slow resigned smile of the constantly oppressed. “I understand,” she said. “But I got what I wanted anyway, a bit of rest from the cold, and I thank you for that.” She struggled to her feet and made her way to the door, pausing as she drew level with me. “I have one other question,” she said. “Did you love her?”
“I did,” I said softly. “I still do.”
“She weren’t the first, you know,” she said. “Wouldn’t have been the last either, if you hadn’t done what you did. I loved ’im, he was my son, that’s what mothers ’ave to do, no matter what they turn into. I can’t forget what you did, nor can I forgive it, but I understand and that’s enough for me. You seem a good man, and you’re doing well now. I’ll leave you in peace.”
She was almost out of the door when my conscience finally got the better of me. “Wait,” I said and darted into my study, returning with a purse full of coins. Ignoring Mr. Andrews’ objections, I pressed it into her hands. “Do some good with this in St. Giles,” I said. “It won’t make up for what I did, but if it gives your other children a start in life...”
She beamed toothlessly at me. “Thank you so much, Mr. Potts. You’re a good man, you are.” With that, she was gone.
Mr. Andrews glared at me. “That was foolish,” he said. “She now has evidence of your contrition. Probably will spend it all on gin anyway. I shall send someone after her to retrieve the money.”
“You will do no such thing,” I said with a force which surprised even me. “That was my money, to do with as I please. You may view a conscience as a luxury but I, sir, do not. I shall hear no more of this matter. I believe you came to discuss tomorrow night’s celebration?”
Chapter 25
As the guest of honour the following night, I decided to arrive fashionably late so that I would be the rightful centre of attention as I stepped through the door. I allowed myself a smile as my carriage drew up at Mr. Bradbury’s lavish house. My life over the past year had surpassed even my own wildest expectations, such that I was not only a regular visitor to the highest echelons of Parliament but had also been granted two audiences with Queen Victoria. People were already talking of the speed and trajectory of my career as having the potential to relegate Mr. Dickens to a mere footnote, a point of view which I was only too happy to cultivate.
I adjusted my waistcoat and jacket as I stepped down from my carriage and walked toward the front door, only to hear my name called from behind me. I turned, expecting that the coachman had spotted something that I had left behind in the carriage but instead was faced with Maxwell and N’yotsu.
“What a surprise,” I said. “I thought that these gatherings were not your cup of tea.”
“They are not,” said Maxwell. “But I wanted to talk with you.”
“I know,” I said. “I have received the messages. I am sorry—I shall ensure you get an appointment soon.”
“Listen to you, appointment indeed!” snorted Maxwell. “I am your elder brother, and care about you a damned sight more than anyone in that house.”
“At least they bother to turn up to my functions,” I said. “At least they show some form of interest in my work and success, however feigned that interest may be.”
He let out a short laugh. “So that is what this has all been about? I have hurt your feelings by not presenting myself at your feet to extoll the virtues of your work?”
“Well... as a matter of fact, yes you have. I have always pretended to be interested in your madcap inventions. But the moment I do something which eclipses what you do, you lose all interest in me.”
“Is this going to take long?” asked N’yotsu.
“Oh, shut up!” I said, before turning back to Maxwell. “Just for once it would have been nice for you to acknowledge that I have done well.”
“Actually, that is one of the reasons that we wanted to speak with you,” Maxwell said. “We were interested in your somewhat meteoric rise, how you were suddenly spotted and then catapulted into your ideal opportunity in spite of having no track record. In the course of our investigations we stumbled upon something rather interesting, did we not?” He looked at N’yotsu, who nodded. Maxwell continued: “We observed some readings which would be consistent with some form of demonic interference in all that has happened to you.”
I laughed. “I genuinely do not believe this! Your lack of faith in my abilities is so complete that you cannot believe that I could achieve anything through my own efforts. Instead you have to bring your damned occult and Aether into this as a way of explaining how poor old Augustus could ever amount to anything!” They both looked down, shamefaced. “You really cannot allow me any form of achievement, can you? Well, you will just have to accept this: I have made a success of myself, I did it through my own endeavours, and there is nothing you can do about it!”
I turned to leave, only to be greeted with another familiar face.
“Hello again Mr. Potts,” said the salesman from that drunken night in the tavern, long ago. “Remember me? We made a bargain a year ago, as a result of which you got everything you wanted. Now I have come to collect my price.”
My stomach turned to ice as it all came flooding back to me: memories of a conversation when I was at my lowest ebb, an offer too tempting to resist. And a price which I never thought would be collected.
“Oh, bugger,” I said.
* * *
I managed to recover my composure reasonably quickly and straightened up to face the salesman. “I am sorry,” I said. “But I do not know who you are.”
The man chuckled. “You’d be surprised how many try that on. But it won’t work—you and I both know what was agreed.”
“It is your word against mine,” I tried again. “No court of law would uphold... whatever it is you claim. I am a man of standing, whereas you...”
“I don’t need to go to any of your courts to enforce this debt. I do not even need to have this conversation, apart from the fact that it always amuses me to see how people try to wriggle out of their obligations. And besides,” he pulled a manuscript out of his jacket. “I have this. A contract, signed by you.”
“A forgery,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” he said. “And it’s written in your blood.”
“May I see?” asked N’yotsu, taking the document. The salesman leered at me while N’yotsu read it through. “Oh, you idiot,” he muttered.
“Now, come on,” I protested.
N’yotsu glared at me. “You signed a contract like this with a complete stranger. A stranger who offered you something impossible, something beyond your wildest dreams, and at a time when you knew that there was a particularly vengeful demon pursuing us.” He looked at the salesman. “And I think you can dispense with that costume, Andras.”
T
he salesman grinned and executed a mock bow, straightening up to reveal the hideous, red eyed, insanely grinning form of the demon Marquis Andras.
I had only ever previously seen the creature from a distance or in darkness, and that was terrifying enough, but close to hand the effect was even more stomach-turning. The insane grin which decorated its face was a parody of emotion and humour, stretching the skin which in turn had more of the appearance of wet, flexible porcelain than actual skin itself. Not for the first time I had the feeling that the creature was constructed by forces which had only a vague idea, from pictures or viewing at a distance, what a human being looked like.
“Good show,” it said, applauding N’yotsu slowly and theatrically. “But now I tire of this. I have come to collect my price.”
“What price?” asked Maxwell.
Andras turned that grin on him. “Why, his soul of course.”
Maxwell looked at me, shock and disbelief etched across his face. “And you agreed to this?”
I nodded slowly. “I was depressed, and a bit drunk. This salesman sat down at my table uninvited and started spouting all manner of rubbish. I did not actually believe a word of what he was saying—indeed, I just wanted to be rid of him—but in any case what he promised did appeal to me. It would to anyone...”
“But in return for your soul?”
“I thought it was the stuff of fairy stories,” I said. “I did not really believe that such a thing was possible.”
“Even in spite of everything you had seen: the demons, ghosts, golems?” N’yotsu folded his arms and glared at me, the stern teacher admonishing a naughty schoolboy.
“Yes, I appreciate that I should have thought it through, been a little bit more suspicious.” I folded my arms, mirroring his stance. “But if you had not noticed, I have somewhat made a career out of poor judgment. You must appreciate that I had nothing to lose.”