The Wolves of London

by Mark Morris

  All the best,

  Alex (from the future)

  I read the letter twice, and then again. By the time I put it aside I was as dizzy and sick as if I’d stepped off a roller coaster. I looked at Hawkins, and it comforted me to see the expression of polite sympathy on his thin, beak-nosed face.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything, sir,’ he said. ‘Although I haven’t read the letter, I have been apprised as to its general content, and you yourself have explained the current situation to me and have described in detail precisely how perplexed you were when you first read it. Let me assure you, therefore, that it is my duty, and indeed my intention, to provide you with whatever aid you may – and will – require during this period of convalescence and readjustment. Although I’m aware that you don’t know me at this stage, rest assured that I know you, and that I have your very best interests at heart.’

  He paused, steepling his fingers.

  ‘The date is the third of September 1895. As I’m sure you are aware, our current monarch is Queen Victoria and our prime minister, following his victory in the recent general election, is Lord Salisbury. However, in order for you to gain a more detailed knowledge of current affairs I have taken the liberty of arranging for The Times of London to be delivered to the house each morning, for your perusal.

  ‘The address here is number 23 Ranskill Gardens, all the necessary documentation for which – together with your personal documentation – is held at the offices of your solicitor, the firm of Holman, Timperley and Bryce on Whitefriars Street in the Temple district. You are a gentleman of independent means, and have a bank account, containing a substantial sum of money, at Fulton and Co. on Lombard Street. Your current household staff numbers five – as well as myself, there is Mrs Peake the house-keeper and three maid-servants, Polly, Florence and Hattie. Mrs Peake and myself are fully aware of your circumstances, though as far as the girls are concerned you have just returned from a voyage to the West Indies with a malady which has resulted in a certain amount of temporary senility and memory loss.’

  I felt I was taking in only a fraction of what Hawkins was telling me, but he paused for no more than a second or two before giving a regal-like waft of his hand. ‘In the wardrobe to your left,’ he said, ‘you will find a selection of attire more suited to the current age than your own more, ah… avant-garde accoutrements. Undergarments and such-like can be found in the drawers of the dresser to the right of the window.

  ‘It is currently a quarter to eleven and luncheon is served at noon. If you wish it, sir, I will gladly provide you with assistance in dressing should you prefer to take your midday meal in the dining room. That is not to say that your convalescence should be a rushed affair. On the contrary, aware though I am of how eager you are to begin your quest to re-acquire the obsidian heart, I must inform you that your, ah… future self did advise me to ensure that you don’t bring more harm upon yourself by leaping back into the fray too swiftly. Indeed his – or rather, your – exact words to me were’ – he paused, reddening slightly – ‘“Don’t take any shit from me, Hawkins.”’

  Despite myself, I laughed – which instantly resulted in a renewed bout of coughing. Hawkins poured me a fresh glass of water, looking somewhat rueful. ‘I’ll have Mrs Peake prepare you a jug of honeyed herbal tea for your throat, sir,’ he said heavily.

  When my breathing had settled into the tight-chested rasp that I guessed I was going to have to get used to for a while, Hawkins said briskly, ‘But enough of your domestic arrangements for now, sir. No doubt you are wondering about the events of last night and their consequences. Perhaps you have already guessed that it was I who unlocked the door to Tallarian’s laboratory and loosened the restraint around your left wrist. I confess I did struggle to resist the urge to simply release you and carry you from the hospital and have done with it. The reason I did not was because I was acting on specific instructions – that is to say, your instructions – besides which, you were unconscious beyond my ability to rouse you, and it was unlikely that we would have made good our escape without encountering Tallarian and his brutish assistant.

  ‘I had gained access to the hospital two days previously by posing as a patient. In this way I was able to observe Tallarian’s methods and become familiar with his and his staff’s routines. It quickly became clear to me that he was exploiting his exalted position to procure subjects for his vile experiments. You had already warned me of the horrors that I would encounter in his basement, sir, for which I am grateful. If it had not been for your warning, I fear I may have been quite unable to fulfil my duties in so clinical and efficient a manner. As it was, I don’t mind admitting that I was shaken by what I saw in that dreadful place.’

  It wasn’t until he paused that I realised how much the experience had affected him. Throughout his recollection, Hawkins’ voice had remained soft and steady, his spine ramrod-straight against the back of his chair. Yet, looking at him now, I saw that his facial muscles had tightened and his nostrils had flared slightly. Catching my eye, he swallowed and gave the briefest twitch of a smile, as if apologising for his weakness. When he resumed, his voice was as steady as before.

  ‘The girl whom you rescued is alive,’ he said, ‘and recovering well. Indeed, she is proving quite a handful for Mrs Peake and her beleaguered staff. Aside from the horrific damage inflicted upon her arm, there is ample evidence that both her mind and body have been subjected to more general and prolonged maltreatment. In short, she is not so far removed from a wild animal. She appears entirely unable to speak, and is given to snarling and lashing out at whoever comes close to her. The girl Polly, and to some extent Mrs Peake, have managed, through persistent patience and kindness, to establish what can best be described as an uneasy rapport with the child. However that did not prevent Polly from suffering lacerations to her arm from the girl’s metal claw when the two of them tried to bathe her. Filthy and stinking though the child is, the attempt to acquaint her with soap and water has been therefore abandoned for the time being. Instead Mrs Peake is currently concentrating on persuading her to remain in her bed at night rather than building a nest from her shredded sheets in the corner of the room, and to… ah, use the chamber pot rather than the carpet for her evacuations.’

  He smiled grimly. ‘But Mrs Peake is a determined sort and I am certain that eventually the child will respond. In the meantime, upon your instructions, we have named her Hope.’

  I nodded. It was good to hear that the girl had survived, but I wondered what had become of the boy I had managed to release, not to mention Tallarian’s other victims, and even Tallarian himself. As if reading my thoughts, Hawkins’ expression became sombre.

  ‘I’m sorry to say that the other poor creatures kept captive by that fiendish man fared less well. I was unable to save them, as a consequence of which they perished in the fire which eventually caused the entire building to be evacuated. As for Tallarian himself, not a trace of him has been found. Forgive me if I sound callous, sir, but my hope is that he died along with his victims, his body burned beyond recognition. Although under the circumstances even that would be a kindly fate for him, I for one would be able to sleep more soundly in my bed, knowing that his black and craven heart had been for ever extinguished.’

  I shook my head. Dredging breath from my smoke-damaged lungs, I wheezed, ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Hawkins…’

  His face fell. ‘You have evidence to suggest that he survived, sir?’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve seen him…’ The effort proved too much and I started to cough.

  Hawkins held up a hand. ‘Don’t over-exert yourself, sir. In your own time, you mean?’

  I nodded again, and Hawkins’ face hardened. ‘Then perhaps he is out of our reach for now. Or it may be that we can somehow stop him in his tracks, curtail his timeline and put an end to his wickedness.’ He saw me looking at him in surprise and gave an abashed smile that instantly put an end to any doubts I might have had about his integrity and trustworthiness. ‘O
h, I am not quite the stuffy retainer I appear, sir. I have something of a history – though I think we will save that for another time. For now, what do you say to getting out of that nightshirt and into attire more suited to a gentleman of the city? I can introduce you to the staff, and after a little lunch you could sit in the garden, take good, fresh air into those lungs of yours and peruse the newspaper. It may be a modest ambition for the day, but it is a realistic one, I feel.’

  I almost gave him the thumbs-up, but then realised he may not understand the gesture, and so simply nodded again. I supposed that for the foreseeable future, nods and shakes of the head would be my primary means of communication.

  With Hawkins’ help, and with a lot of coughing, I got up and dressed. I could have done with a shower or a bath – which led me to wonder whether I had hot and cold running water in this house of mine – but I didn’t have the energy; maybe tomorrow. It was odd having another man dress me like a child, but I was grateful for Hawkins’ help. Besides which, he was a model of decorum, efficiency and patience, and I felt comfortable in his presence. It was a long, laborious process, but eventually I was ready. At Hawkins’ suggestion I stood in front of the full-length mirror and admired myself. Admittedly I was unshaven, hunched over with pain, and my mouth was hanging open as I laboured for breath, but when Hawkins asked, ‘Are the garments satisfactory, sir?’ I nodded.

  It was more than that, though. Seeing myself in my grey tailored jacket and trousers, my green and black embroidered waistcoat, and my wing-collared shirt and cravat, I had a sudden and overwhelming sense that time was shifting, that gears were grinding into motion to shunt me into a new and significant phase of my life. I felt the massive weight of expectation, of destiny even. Although the heart was no longer in my possession I felt it calling to me, felt as though it was still my mission, my duty, to find it and keep it safe. And I knew that if I could find the heart then I could find Kate too, for with the heart in my hand links would be made, timelines established and strengthened. And all at once I realised what I had meant in the letter when I had said that finding out the house was mine would help me to ‘work out a few things’.

  If I had bought the house and met and employed Hawkins two years ago, then I must have travelled back from my future to do so. And the only way I could have done that was with the heart. Which meant that I must find it, and that, if I didn’t, who knew what would unravel, what terrible forces would come into play and what catastrophes would occur? I was trapped in a situation where my actions in the future were already having a massive impact on my present, and where so much and so many were relying on me. For that reason I had to succeed, simply to prevent everything from collapsing inwards like a house of cards.

  The ripples of time. In that moment I fancied I could almost feel them. Slowly I raised my hand and touched my reflection in the mirror. Is that how close I was to my future self? Our fingertips almost touching? Is that how close I was to disaster? If I failed, would causality be like a series of mirrors, one shattering after another?

  Behind me I heard the door open. I glanced in the mirror to see who had entered, but my raised hand was obscuring the doorway, smudging it out. I lowered the hand and stared at the figure that stood there. Astonished, I turned.

  She was beautiful. Radiant. She wore a flowing silk gown, diamonds at her throat, and her hair had been teased into curls and waves. She swished gracefully into the room and smiled at me.

  ‘Hello, Alex,’ said Clover.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to my agent John Jarrold, and to my lovely editors at Titan, Cath Trechman and Natalie Laverick, for their enthusiastic belief not only in this book but in the entire trilogy, and for backing my cover ideas with grace and fortitude. I’m grateful to my ever-supportive wife Nel and to my children David and Polly, for listening to my occasional readings and making suitably encouraging noises. I’m indebted to my many wonderful friends (you know who you are), without whom this writing lark would be far lonelier and nowhere near as much fun, and particularly to those who provided me with a writing refuge during my travels, as a consequence of which bits of this book were written in Nicholas Royle’s flat in Manchester, Sarah Pinborough and Lee Thompson’s flat in London, Stephen and Patricia Volk’s house in Bradford-on-Avon, and Johnny Mains’s book-lined study in Plymouth.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mark Morris has written over twenty-five novels, among which are Toady, Stitch, The Immaculate, The Secret of Anatomy, Fiddleback, The Deluge and four books in the popular Doctor Who range. He is also the author of two short story collections, Close to the Bone and Long Shadows, Nightmare Light, and several novellas. His short fiction, articles and reviews have appeared in a wide variety of anthologies and magazines, and he is editor of Cinema Macabre, a book of horror movie essays by genre luminaries for which he won the 2007 British Fantasy Award, its follow-up Cinema Futura, and The Spectral Book of Horror Stories, the inaugural volume of what is hoped will become an annual series. His script work includes audio dramas for Big Finish Productions’ Doctor Who and Jago & Litefoot ranges, and also for Bafflegab’s Hammer Chillers series, and his recently published work includes an updated novelisation of the 1971 Hammer movie Vampire Circus, the official movie tie-in novelisation of Darren Aronofsky’s Noah, and the Shirley Jackson Award nominated novella It Sustains for Earthling Publications. Upcoming is a new short story collection from ChiZine Publications, two more novellas (for Spectral Press and Salt/Remains Publishing), and books two and three of the Obsidian Heart trilogy, which will be published by Titan Books in 2015 and 2016.

  www.markmorriswriter.com

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