Hairy London

by Stephen Palmer

  Sheremy and Missus watched from the sidelines, wondering how they were going to continue, but then Sheremy saw a fallen velocipede that kicked its legs like an upside down beetle, venting steam from clanking joints. Its pennant, a loaf couchant on a field of vert, hung loose, bloody and torn. Without hesitation Sheremy pushed his way through the hair and lifted the machine upright, sitting on the seat so that he could experiment with the controls. A lever to move the thing forward… a lever to move it back… these buttons here to control speed and attitude. Seemed simple enough.

  “Missus, come sit on my lap!” he cried, over the clamour of ponies being torn asunder by superheated steam.

  Slipping on oil dripping from the pubic hair, Missus ran towards him, then, as Sheremy pressed buttons to lower the seating deck, jumped upon his lap. The velocipede creaked, steam venting from its joints, but she was light and it steadied itself, then groaned and stood upright. Sheremy worked levers to make it walk into King David Lane, then turned right into the Highway.

  The velocipede seat was comfortable – leather and satin cushions, with a packet of ginger biscuits beneath one of the cushions – but it was a seat meant only for one: Sheremy hoped he would be free of the battle soon. The machine walked carefully, like a heron on lilypads, moving over the most luxuriant pubic curls with little difficulty. Missus squealed like a girl at every jolt. But then a detachment of ponies appeared on the approach to Cannon Street Road, and Sheremy was forced to stop.

  “Are there guns aboard this thing?” Missus asked.

  Sheremy saw nozzles, but had no idea what they were. “We’re only a few hundred yards from East Smithfield,” he said, “and that means Whitechapel is close.” Pressing buttons, he lowered the seating deck so that they could jump out, but a rain of miniature arrows made of quills flew towards them, which they had to duck by diving amidst the hair. Crawling beneath oily curls they struggled along the western reaches of the Highway, but just as Sheremy saw the sign for East Smithfield he also saw something else.

  “Crabs!” Missus wailed.

  “Phthirus pubis,” Sheremy gasped. “What an evil fortune. Crab lice, and I am quite done in.”

  The crabs scuttled towards Sheremy and Missus, their pincers clacking, their round bodies swaying like sacks of gruel, while on their evil little faces lay expressions of ravenous hunger.

  “Dirks out,” Missus said, standing up and adopting a defensive stance.

  Sheremy copied her, his hope fading, but the crabs, it seemed, were intelligent and realised the pair were no easy prey. By shouting and waving their dirks they were able to scare the beasts off.

  “Quickly,” Missus said, grabbing Sheremy by the hand, “I’ll lead now, all the ways to Whitechapel.” Past the Royal Mint buildings they ran, across Royal Mint Street, then into the soft and butter-yellow hair of Mansell Street. “We’re in Whitechapel, we is,” Missus said with a sigh.

  Sheremy nodded. Already noon had passed. They ate the biscuits then drank the last of their boiled water, at which point Sheremy, exhausted from lack of sleep and his recent exertions, knew he must rest. Missus agreed; she felt little better. In a doorway concealed by a mop of brown hair they curled up, each comforting the other; hand in hand.

  Sheremy woke, dozed, woke again. Night had fallen. Whitechapel was quiet; the sky dark, no lamps in Mansell Street, no rain to trouble them, no wind, nor even a hint of a breeze. London Town quiescent, as if waiting, waiting…

  Then the sound of a distant scream, a woman’s scream, splitting the Whitechapel air; and Sheremy jumped to his feet.

  A scream did not bode well.

  ~

  In Pimlico stood the Buddhist monastery that Velvene intended visiting. He landed in the hairy gardens of St George’s Square, then made his way on foot to Lupus Street, where the monastery stood: an Oriental wooden oddity amongst the pale stone and sash windows of surrounding buildings.

  Velvene knew nothing about Eastern religion. He fooled himself into thinking he was learned about the Oriental world, but, as Marx and others had pointed out, that was because he gadded around the Empire serving his King and Emperor. True knowledge, he was beginning to learn, arrived in the mind on different vehicles.

  So it was that he went into the temple with timidity, almost anxiety, thinking as he peered up at paintings and tapestries that he was a charlatan indeed, coming here to ask questions. In a distant corner stood a gold-covered statue of the figure he assumed must be Buddah, smiling, his hair like a multitude of individually tied locks, one hand raised palm out.

  A monk, shaven-headed and wearing a green robe, approached him. “Can I help you?”

  Velvene laughed. “Well… yes. But I have a strange question to ask.”

  “You may ask me.”

  “Well… you see, the thing is, I do not know much about you types, but I thought you might be able to help me discover…”

  “Yes?”

  “What love is, eh?”

  The monk nodded. “I am asked this often,” he said. “Love is the law of the Wheel Of Becoming.”

  “Is it, now?”

  “All life is one, and compassion is the directive that motivates it. If you are compassionate, you feel for all forms of life. But compassion is no mere attribute, it is the directive of directives, everlasting, love eternal.”

  “Yes,” Velvene said, lost already.

  “It is written in the Metta Sutta for the novice Buddhist – ‘As a mother, even at the risk of her own life, protects her son, her only son, so let him cultivate love without measure towards all beings. Let him cultivate toward the whole world, above, below, around and everywhere, a heart unmixed with enmity. Let a man maintain this mindfulness for all his waking hours, whether he be standing, walking, sitting or lying down.’”

  Velvene nodded. This was already far too difficult for him.

  The monk continued, “Or perhaps as it is written in the Itivuttaka – ‘All the means that can be used as bases for right action are not worth the sixteenth part of the emancipation of the heart through love. This takes all others up into itself, outshining them in glory. Just as whatsoever stars there be, their radiance avails not the sixteenth part of the radiance of the moon, just as the sun, mounting up into a clear and cloudless sky, overwhelms all darkness in the realms of space–’”

  “My good man,” Velvene interrupted, “do you have this written down somewhere, because I have not a hope in hell of remembering it.”

  The monk paused, then said, “Love is a virtue we cultivate for the service of mankind. To feel love, your heartbeat must become the heartbeat of the universe, your consciousness coincident with all life that lives. We call love one of the four Sublime States of Consciousness…”

  But Velvene was not listening. Something the monk had said chimed in his memory: a virtue we cultivate for the service of mankind. What was it his brother had said, so many years ago now? “No-one hath any greater love than that of a man for his country.”

  Yes! Of course! The highest calling, the highest love, was that of a man for his country, for his King and Emperor. And he, a member of the Suicide Club, was ideally placed to experience and comprehend that love.

  He raised his hand, interrupting the monk and saying, “Thank you for helping me, but I have heard enough now. Goodbye!”

  He turned and hurried out of the temple, returning to the machinora, where, with a hop of delight, he jumped in.

  “Why,” he told the clay figure, “I believe I have found my answer at last – and, rather handily, it chimes in with what I already do, so there is no need to undertake much work or learn anything religious. Tally ho! I am flying off to sign up for the nearest war.”

  The figure, it seemed to him, turned its head, and he thought he heard a distant voice, a voice that for the fraction of a moment he recognised. But then the will-o’-the-wisp was gone.

  “What’s that, eh?” he said. “In war I won’t find love?”

  Silence.

  But he was sure h
e had heard a voice saying those words, so he turned around and called out, “Hello? Anybody there?”

  Lupus Street lay quiet, hairy, empty.

  He shrugged and ignited the heatorix.

  ~

  As evening turned to night in Windsor, Kornukope and his companions stood deep in shadow beneath the high stone walls of the royal castle. Two flags flapped in pale moonlight upon the same flagpole: the royal standard of the King and the Teutonic device of Queen Alberta.

  “They are both in residence,” Yeggman observed.

  “Yes, yes, well done,” Kornukope replied, with no little sarcasm. “Have you discovered your secret entrance yet?”

  “I am searching for it right now.”

  Kornukope found himself more irritated with Yeggman than he had ever been before. And he smelled a rat. A big rat. A rat that had appeared because of a lack of mental analysis in the chateau and an excess of suspicious behaviour afterwards. Why Zarina – a delightful creature in comparison – kept his company was anybody’s guess.

  “Why are you wearing spectacles?” he asked. “You never have before.”

  “These, sir, are optically expanded spectacles invented by Röntgen of the Camden Town Institute–”

  “What? You know him?”

  Now Yeggman seemed annoyed. “A little. Is that a crime? Half of London knows Röntgen, if only for his madcap inventions – the cathode-ray velocipede, photogram emulsion, octopus cups–”

  “I know what the man has invented,” Kornukope interrupted.

  “Well these spectacles work on a different optical wavelength, allowing me to see beneath the stone. Does that explanation satisfy you?”

  “Oh, find the secret entrance and be done with it. The guards will see us and become suspicious if we remain here much longer.”

  Yeggman said nothing more, taking the spectacle aerials in his hands, vibrating them, then moving his head from side to side, like a snake hypnotising prey. Then he stopped moving.

  “I’ve got it.”

  He took the spectacles off and leaned towards the wall, where, like a criminal at a safe, he bent down and placed his ear to the stone. Kornukope, one yard away, watched. When Yeggman stood up again Kornukope saw a greasy mark on the stone, lit by the moon; the ghostly impression of an ear.

  Yeggman waved Kornukope away, then pressed the stone. It moved backwards, revealing a small opening.

  Kornukope allowed Zarina to move forwards, then whispered to Eastachia, “I do not like this, it is all too convenient. Why on Earth would this castle have a secret tunnel in such a place?”

  Eastachia moved forward to the wall, running her fingers along the stone edges. “It’s been recently made,” she said. “Look – fresh stone revealed.”

  “Quickly, inside,” Kornukope whispered back, “or they will suspect us.”

  “They’re up to no good,” Eastachia replied as she ducked down to enter the tunnel Yeggman’s secret door had revealed.

  The tunnel was fifty yards long and ended at a wall of damp brick on which a ladder was affixed. This Yeggman climbed, his automatic candle gripped between his teeth, whereupon, at the top, he grunted, groaned, then managed to free a manhole cover. A minute later they all stood inside a hut.

  “Do you know where we are?” Kornukope asked.

  Eastachia pinched him hard. She shook her head.

  “What d’you mean?” Yeggman asked.

  “Nothing,” Kornukope replied.

  Yeggman raised his automatic candle and surveyed the hut, which was filled with garden implements. “This seems to be a place of horticulture,” he said.

  “What’s your plan now?” Eastachia asked.

  “I need to investigate old Struckett’s claim about the ringlets of German hair. I’ll have to find a way into the domestic quarters.”

  “On your own?” Kornukope asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Never, sir. I will go with you. A man of the Suicide Club will be required.”

  “You’ll stay here–”

  Eastachia interrupted, “I’ll go with you, Yeggman. It’s not safe on your own. We need to work in pairs or as a team.”

  “Very well,” Yeggman replied.

  They departed the hut a minute later, entering dark night; the moon now lost behind cloud. Kornukope sighed and sat back on a wicker chair. Zarina pulled a second chair up to his, so near that he could smell her perfume.

  She said, “I cannot be thanking you enough Kornukope for rescuing me from the cooking bowl of the savages.”

  “It was nothing, dear lady.”

  “But you are so strong and dashing.”

  Before he could reply she launched herself at him, kissing him with Continental passion; and Kornukope, much to his surprise, found himself responding. He realised he liked this: he liked the woman. But what was this infatuation? Was it some mystical connection, real and full of hope, or was it just a release from the boredom of his marriage?

  When they parted for air he said, “I say! My dear–”

  She placed a finger upon his lips. “Do not be saying anything. I have longed, longed Kornukope for the touch of a man like you are a man. In my country, the men are weak and trivial.”

  “Yes, where is your country exactly?”

  She seemed not to hear him. “I love you Kornukope, and I have been in the loving with you since the day we met. Is that such a crime? A man and a woman, they are in the meeting place, and it is random. Why should we not follow our passions?”

  “It is not quite how we Brit–”

  “Oh, my troika, kiss my lips once more!”

  Then she was upon him again, and he did not resist. And after a short while they played mongoose the hamadryad.

  Yeggman and Eastachia returned half an hour later. Yeggman said, “We’ve found access to the public and private sections of the castle. There are many people here at the moment, it’s a social whirl.”

  “But we are not dressed for such occasions,” Kornukope pointed out.

  Yeggman nodded, for once at a loss. “We’re not entirely inappropriately dressed,” he mused, looking everybody up and down. “If you brushed the mud off your trousers and I cleaned my frock-coat… perhaps we could pass muster.”

  Eastachia fumbled inside her muted crocodile handbag. “I’ve got a comb,” she said. “And some pink face powder for myself and Zarina.”

  In the dim light of the hut they preened themselves as best they could, then departed, making for the driveway along which visitors arrived. Yeggman led them to the rear of a kitchen block, the end of which had a low-level window in the French style. To Kornukope’s consternation the lock took Yeggman ten seconds to break.

  He whispered to Eastachia, “Prepare to make a run for it, dearest one. This man is up to no good.”

  She nodded.

  In the kitchen all was quiet, but along the nearest corridor they heard the chatter of voices, clinking glasses, and the sound of a chamber orchestra playing The Green Danube. Yeggman led the way, alert, his hands in his pockets.

  Yeggman surveyed the scene from behind a thick curtain. A butler and a valet walked by, but neither paid them any attention. Kornukope began to fret. Though he wanted to know what terrible Teutonic plot was being enacted within the castle walls, the ease of Yeggman’s approach and his dastardly confidence was quite a trial, even for a man of the Suicide Club. This was a place of royalty, after all. This was the home of the King.

  Yeggman led them along another series of corridors to the ballroom, where, in the distance, Kornukope saw the King and Queen. Three hundred people at least filled the chamber, and the sound of music and excited chatter was loud.

  Yeggman gestured to a side chamber in which musical instruments lay.

  “What next?” Kornukope asked, when all four of them stood inside.

  Yeggman pulled a pignose revolver from his pocket, pointed it at Kornukope and said, “This.”

  Kornukope and Eastachia stumbled backwards. “What are you doing?” Kor
nukope said. “Are you a madman?”

  “Didn’t you wonder why I hauled you all the way here?” Yeggman replied.

  “Hauled? We were sent on this mission by Lord Bland–”

  “Be quiet! You’ll be doing what I say now. And I have definite plans for you… suicidal plans.”

  Then Zarina laughed, and Kornukope had an awful vision of her: a different woman, dangerous, unknown. What black arts had he fallen for? Had he really thought her advances to be sincere?

  Yeggman continued, “This is Princess Zarina Nataliya Romanov of the Russio royal family – a relation of King Victorian, no less. But King Victorian is married at the moment, and that places an obstacle in the Russio path. So we shall remove Queen Alberta–”

  “Remove? You murderous fiend.”

  “Some will say that – others will applaud us. Zarina, you see, is a babushka, with all the feminine skills such a position entails. With Alberta out of the way, and with her being related to the King, it will not be long before he succumbs to her charms. And then there will be a second marriage, and the King will be in Russio hands.”

  At last Kornukope understood the nature of Zarina’s black arts. She had played him for a fool. “You cannot succeed here,” he told Yeggman. “You will be captured. This place is too crowded even for you to escape.”

  “You don’t understand,” Yeggman replied. “I won’t be the murderer, you will be. That’s why you’re here.”

  “But… but…”

  “Hornelius Struckett is one of my men. Alas he was thrown out of the castle when he got too close. But he saw just enough to get messages out, which we eventually intercepted, and this is why Lord Blandhubble took us on. We fooled him also, you see.”

  Kornukope nodded. “I see perfectly well,” he said. “Your plan is against the Kaiser, not the King.”

  Yeggman grinned. “You’ve got the wit at least to see that much,” he said. “You Britishers are fading. The Russio plan is to halt Teutonic world dominance, and to do this we need the King in our hands. At the moment he is far too… Kaiserish.”

  Kornukope felt fear chill his skin. He trembled. “I will not undertake your plan,” he said. “Nothing could induce me to murder–”