Hairy London

by Stephen Palmer

  With a crooked finger he gestured for them to approach. The door closed behind them, and there was a noise as of a key turning in a lock. Eastachia bowed to the man, palms together, and murmured, “Namasté.”

  “Who are you, sir?” Kornukope asked.

  “I am Pysgod, King of the Underwater Realm,” he replied. His accent was curious, his mode of speaking old fashioned. “Thou art strangers in my court.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Kornukope replied. “We do not wish to be here.”

  “Thou art my subjects. Thy chattels and worth are directed to me alone.”

  “Have you been here long, Your Majesty?”

  “Three hundred years, all alone,” he replied. “And now thou art here, in my power. And mayhap I shall have me a wife at last.”

  Eastachia glanced at Kornukope. “This man – Kornukope Wetherbee – is my husband.”

  “Thou wouldst gainsay my word?”

  Eastachia shrugged, not knowing what else to do. “There are laws against bigamy,” she said.

  “Thou standest in my world. And I am lonely… fair terrible lonely. These centuries have crawled by, like garden slugs.”

  Struck by the simile, Eastachia said, “You were once a man of the outside world, Your Majesty?”

  “Ah, indeed! Then the pysgodians took me. But art thou a woman of fire and passion, my lady? Wilt thou make me a good wife?”

  Kornukope asked, “Who are the pysgodians?”

  “My servants, my subjects, my piscine slaves.”

  Eastachia said, “Your jailors?”

  “Quiet, hag!” He raised what appeared to be a golden trident from the floor of his horseless carriage. “This will pull out thy tongue if thou be not silent.”

  “Your Majesty,” said Kornukope, “if you wish to return to the outside world, as seems likely to me even taking into account the brevity of our acquaintance, all you have to do is demand it of your pysgodian servants.”

  “They be half dead creatures of the other world,” he replied. “I may not gainsay them, and they never gainsay me in their cold, aquatic worship. It is a stalemate. But now… now I have me a lady close by.”

  “But I love another,” Eastachia said.

  “Love?”

  “Yes, yes, Your Majesty, love!” Kornukope cried. “I would do anything for Eastachia, my most dear wife. Do you think love can be handed around, like sweetmeats? It is a thing of the heart, of time and patience, a thing of giving – and, Your Majesty, of taking, though it be in equal measure. It is the understanding of life, if you will, over time, and with one other of merit.”

  “Kornukope!” Eastachia exclaimed. “Do not forget a word of that speech.”

  He nodded, out of breath, then replied, “I shall not.” Turning to the King he concluded, “Your Majesty, you cannot force my wife to love you. Your hope, though it is sincere and heartbreaking to behold, is false.”

  The King sighed. “Thou hast right on thy side,” he said. “I am doomed, as ever I hast been.”

  Kornukope began walking around the chamber. “Where do all these objects come from?” he asked.

  “My subjects bringeth them to me from the outside world. Likest thou my new throne? It arrived but three se’nights ago.”

  Kornukope examined the horseless carriage. “But Your Majesty,” he said, “this is a brand new Zeppelin-Benz.” He sniffed the diesel tank. “It even has fuel in it.”

  “I understand not thy whimsy.”

  Kornukope slapped his hand upon the bonnet. “This throne is a vehicle. You can simply drive out of your prison, Your Majesty.”

  “But I cannot drive. Canst thou?”

  Kornukope grimaced. “No… and neither can my wife.”

  “Then we three are like fish in a tank.”

  “A most apposite image Your Majesty,” Kornukope said, “but I refuse to be beaten. See, the roof of the horseless carriage can be raised over the vehicle, sealing it.” He reached inside, adding, “Allow me, Your Majesty… ah! An instruction manual in the glove compartment.”

  With the King in the passenger seat and Eastachia in the back, Kornukope sat behind the driving wheel and opened the manual.

  “Curses! It is in German.”

  “German?”

  “Of the land occupied by the Holy Roman Emperor.”

  “Canst thou read this script?”

  Kornukope nodded. “I have some small understanding of the language from my days duelling with Prussian exiles. See here, the manual has diagrams, which I believe I could use to make the horseless carriage work.”

  “And then?”

  “The outside world!”

  Eastachia curled up in the back of the vehicle, certain that a time of peril was about to arrive. “Take care, darling,” she murmured.

  He did not seem to hear her. “Take starting handle and motivate engine,” he read. “Then sit inside, and pump left pedal. Release brake and press right pedal. Well, that seems simple enough.”

  Turning the starting handle at the front of the engine made the horseless carriage cough, then roar as the engine took hold. The din echoed around the chamber, and all the fish swimming above darted off. Kornukope pulled up and secured the canvas roof, then leaped into the driver’s seat, shut and locked the door, then pumped the left pedal and pressed the right pedal with his foot. Having released the brake, the horseless carriage began to move, then accelerate away.

  “Over there!” cried the King, pointing to a wide corridor leading up from the chamber.

  “Where does it lead?” Kornukope asked.

  “To the observation window.”

  Eastachia peered over the front seats. A great pane of glass blocked the end of the short corridor, which they were heading for at ten miles an hour. “Stop, stop!” she cried.

  “Fifteen… twenty,” said Kornukope, hunched over the steering wheel.

  “You’ll kill us all!” Eastachia cried.

  They hit the observation window and smashed through it, but were forced back by the surge of water. Soon however the chamber flooded, and Kornukope drove up the corridor once again, then out into the lake, like a bubble rising in a spring. At the surface the Zeppelin character of the horseless carriage took hold and they rose into the air, shedding water, lily leaves and a number of dead fish as they did. Kornukope drove like a man possessed, leaning forward, clutching the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands, muttering to himself as if reciting the important parts of the instruction manual.

  “Thou hast succeeded,” the King said. “A knighthood for thee, I say!”

  “And now back to London Town,” Kornukope replied.

  Wrenching the steering wheel clockwise, Kornukope put the noon sun to his right and headed for Egg&Ham, then Stains. But Eastachia glanced to her left, to see a flock of birds heading straight for them. “Look out!” she cried.

  It was too late. Like blackbirds buzzing a falcon the flock slammed into the horseless carriage with a noise as of pounding hammers, producing a haze of feathers, and spotting the windscreen with blood. The engine spluttered, then died.

  “We are undone!” the King gasped.

  Eastachia looked down to see an unfamiliar landscape. Gone was the pleasant (if hairy) Shepperton, Sunbury and Walton-on-Thames: all she could see was brown mud, ruined roads and street upon street of bombed out houses.

  But the horseless carriage was falling fast, and Kornukope said nothing in the manual explained what he should do. With a scream Eastachia curled up in the back seat, her head in her hands. There was a sickening crash, and then the world seemed to spin around her, and she was thrown around the back seat, her breath forced from her body by the impact.

  Then silence. The horseless carriage creaked. She could smell diesel fuel.

  “Kornukope? Your Majesty?”

  The vehicle had rolled into an upright position, hissing steam escaping from its engine. She clambered up and looked over the edge of the front seats. Kornukope breathed, his right arm twisted into an imposs
ible position. But the King hardly breathed, and there was blood on his lips, over his face and soaked into his shirt.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Pearly King’s plan was to raid all the great houses, associations and halls in the eastern part of the City, removing every last bit of non-perishable food so that the Cockneigh horde could eat. He then intended forcing a way to Paternoster Row, from where St Paul’s and the land surrounding it would be shaved – continuously – making a base for the uprising, from which they would prepare the assault on Whitehall and the Houses of Parliament.

  “An ambitious plan,” Sheremy remarked as he and the Pearlies stood high atop a rangooning tower on London Wall, from where they could see the crimson dome of St Paul’s.

  “We’ll beat dem all,” opined the Pearly King.

  “We’ll start a revolution,” the Pearly Queen said.

  Sheremy nodded. “The revolution has already begun.”

  And the revolution continued the day after…

  Knowing that cutting, shaving and burning only made London’s street hair grow faster and thicker, Sheremy was surprised to hear that the tricho-thaumaturgists of the Cockneigh Uprising had developed a method, albeit a haphazard method, of dealing with the city’s choked thoroughfares. Using traditional African hair designs they knotted, plaited and pulled the hair into rows, so that pale passages were exposed between plaits, many of which were oiled to keep them lying flat. In this way they created narrow lanes through which the cavalry and infantry of the uprising could pass.

  Sheremy gazed out along Throgmorton Street, its black hair neatly tied up into parallel rows, with ribbons decorating some of the plaits. The Bank of England and the Royal Exchange stood nearby. He watched units of cavalry mounted on destrierios charge along the street. A line of black-suited bankers waited at the far end, but they stood no chance. The hydraulic lances of the cavalry, their fiendish war-cries, and the momentum of individual destrierios, some augmented with steel vanguards, all made the charge unstoppable.

  Sheremy did not know whether to shrink in horror at the bloodshed or cheer on the brave men of the uprising. But when he saw banknotes floating down from the roof of the Bank of England his enthusiasm got the better of him, and he cheered. Missus did too. Alas that he had been a nob for so much of his life.

  The Pearly King stood at his side. “Dis real good! Progress bein’ made.”

  “Yes,” Sheremy agreed. “We’ll have this wretched government by the balls in a matter of days. Let’s see if their money can save them then.”

  The Pearly King laughed.

  Court Mansion House fell, but at a cost: ten courageous cavalry blown to steaming smithereens by a natrio-bomb. The infantry of the uprising hung every last man of the enemy remaining in the building, then torched it. Ravens flapped down to peck at gibbetty bodies. Sheremy didn’t much care for that kind of treatment, but he was in no mood to complain. This was a revolution, damn it. There were going to be casualties.

  By now, detachments of uprising food-gatherers were streaming through the streets, following the hair-plaiters, forming chains of people to hand food back to central stores, then moving on. There were no reports of nobs, bankers, toffs, lawyers, or indeed of any others of the upper classes. The rumour of the uprising had scattered aristocrats to the four winds.

  Sheremy smiled, pleased. But he knew resistance would be centred on Whitehall and Westminster. These, here today, these were mere skirmishes. The war had only just begun.

  By the end of the day the uprising had reached Queen Victoria Street, Cannon Street and Watling Street. As night fell camps were made, food eaten and joannas played. The sound of barrel organs echoed out over the city, and a thousand jolly singalongs too. Sheremy ate eel pie and mash as though he were a Cockneigh. He felt like one. He knew his days as minor gentry were over. This was living.

  St Paul’s Cathedral fell without a struggle, the priests, vergers and choirboys fleeing west, carrying their precious bibles and manticores. It was given to the wisest and most respected leaders of the uprising – greengrocers, fishmongers, labourers – to destroy the pews, hymn books and crucifixes of the place, which they did with delight, smashing every last stained glass window with rocks brought from the banks of the Thames. In this fashion the building was made clean again, all hint of unearned authority washed away.

  “Dis good,” the Pearly King said. “I like what I seein’. Nice work!”

  Sheremy nodded. He stood near to the Pearly King as often as he could, knowing that his presence would be invaluable in the war to come. Yes, Sheremy Pantomile was a traitor to the upper classes, but he was a real human being.

  Missus helped out alongside the women of the uprising, which mostly consisted of them telling men how to wash clothes and prepare food. Some women, the stronger and younger ones, fought in infantry units, and a few even rode alongside the cavalry.

  With the hair around St Paul’s plaited in West African style, the uprising headquarters were prepared. Hundreds of tents and marquees rose up so that the land between Cannon Street and Paternoster Row became a tent city, with a grand sequin-studded marquee for the Pearlies. Sheremy and Missus refused special treatment, lodging in a small tent amongst the ironmongers and mungmongers, where they kissed, cuddled and, very quietly, made love.

  Next day it was onward to Ludgate Hill and Fleet Street. Sheremy, telling Missus that he needed to be at the front, put on steel fandangoes, goggles and a wroughtwork helmet to protect him from the ejecta of battle; for Gough Square was near. As soon as he could he escaped the fighting and headed up Shoe Lane, then through a maze of passages into Gough Square.

  The place looked much the same, the hair longer, unclean and with lumpy dandruff, over which he tripped. He saw no people: not in the alleys, amidst the hair, not even peering out from upper floor windows. The square was deserted.

  At his own house he hammered on the door. No key, of course. He heard nothing within, no sound of booted feet nor Scottish muttering, so he smashed a window and climbed through the glass shards. Brushing himself down, he called out, “Anybody there? McTevish, you about?”

  No reply. Silence.

  In the kitchen he found the desiccated body of his valet, gnawed by rats, semi-clothed. For a while, he wept. This scene he knew would have been repeated all across London. He unlocked the back door and stepped into his hairy garden, cutting a strip with hedge-shears, digging a hole then burying the body. For a tombstone he used a simple plank of wood, on which he scratched the words: waste of a good man.

  There was almost no edible food in the pantries, but he took what he could: dry biscuits, salted meat that for some reason had withstood decay, packets of dried fruit. A bowl of oranges on the kitchen table was nothing more than a film of vivid blue mould. From his rooms upstairs he gathered tough clothes, boots, money and a briefcase of geographical instruments; also all his papers referencing the Suicide Club.

  Then it was back to the whirl, blood and bustle of the Cockneigh Uprising. For a few moments he regretted losing that Gough Square tranquility he had so enjoyed, but he knew it was an illusion, bought at the expense of the majority of the people of London Town. Old days, now, and gone forever. He shrugged.

  Back at St Paul’s he passed his retrieved food on to the gatherers. To Missus he said, “My goodness, how I’ve changed.”

  She nodded. “I knows.”

  Next morning Sheremy spoke privately with the Pearlies. “Your majesties,” he said, “I have a boon to ask of you.”

  “Speak on, mon,” said the Pearly King.

  “Half way up Chancery Lane lies Bedwards House, the home of the Suicide Club, which is the foremost exploratory society of London. I beg you not to destroy that building.”

  “Hmmm… why?”

  “Because inside lie all the tools, papers and equipment – if any yet remains – that I’ll need to carry your dreams on to Westminster.”

  “I seein’… though I don’ like it.”

  Sheremy
nodded. “I understand. The uprising should not discriminate. But sir, this place is different. I know it intimately, I know its resources, its possibilities. As your agent, I’ll be diminished if I can’t call on it.”

  The Pearly King nodded. “Dat good point. I need you, sure.”

  Sheremy bowed low. “Thank you, your majesties.”

  That day the uprising forged its way across the City to Kingway and the Strand, pausing only when the sun set. But rumours began to fly about defensive positions not far away. Sheremy, Missus and the Pearlies went with a stout East End detachment to the Victoria Embankment, along which they strolled until they reached Cleopatra’s Needle. There a pair of men clambered up the structure, attaching a telescophia to the top, returning, wires trailing, to ground level, like monkeys. The wires were attached to a plexograph, whose screen showed them the view from the top of the needle.

  “I seein’!” the Pearly King muttered. “No likin’.”

  Sheremy saw and disliked also. Along Charing Cross Road stood hundreds of soldiers, battalion after battalion after battalion, massing in Trafalgar Square, where they numbered five hundred or more: cannons stood prepared to fire, guns lay on easels, multi-arrow bows and steam-powered vanquishers readied.

  “They are defending Nelson,” Sheremy observed. “It is the very quick of England, prepared by the government to halt our progress. Battle is near.”

  Northumberland Avenue was similarly protected.

  “We’ll halt da progress of da uprisin’ nearby,” said the Pearly King. “Dere no point goin’ further west when we not ready.”

  Sheremy nodded. “I leave tactics and strategy to you and the experts,” he said.