The Bookman

by Lavie Tidhar

  In the small margin of the letter, Gilgamesh had scribbled a couple of lines in small, barely legible writing, almost as if hiding them there. He cleared his eyes again and tried to decipher the words. When meaning came, dread wrapped itself around his neck like an ex ecutioner's rope, for it said: "I know now that he is near, and moving. His next target may be the Martian space probe you told me about. For your sake, and Lucy's – stay away from it. If I can I will tell you myself–"

  There was no more.

  And time, for Orphan, stopped.

  He was a point of profound silence in the midst of chaos and noise. That silence, holy and absolute, was his as he stood against the wall of the train station, the letter falling slowly from his hand to the floor, too heavy to be carried any more. Lucy. The thought threatened to consume him. Lucy, and her gift to the planet Mars: a small, innocent volume of verse. Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnets from the Portuguese.

  Somewhere in the distance a whistle blew, rose in the air, and combined with the clear, heavy notes that echoed from Big Ben. They tolled seven times, and their sound jarred against Orphan's own bell of silence, until at last, on the final stroke, it cracked.

  Lucy, he thought. And, my love.

  He had half an hour to save her.

  FIVE

  The Martian Probe

  Once in about every fifteen years a startling visitant makes his appearance upon our midnight skies, a great red star that rises at sunset through the haze about the eastern horizon, and then, mounting higher with the deepening night, blazes forth against the dark background of space with a splendour that outshines Sirius and rivals the giant Jupiter himself. Startling for its size, the stranger looks the more fateful for being a fiery red. Small wonder that by many folk it is taken for a portent.

  – Percival Lowell, Mars

  Picture, for a moment, the great city from above. On one side of the river rise ancient stone buildings, their chimneys puffing out smoke into the night air. Interspersed between them are newer, taller edifices, magnificent constructions in metal and glass, returning the glare of gas and lights from their smooth surfaces. Here is the Strand, the wide avenue overflowing with ladies in their fineries and beggars with their bowls, with hansom cabs and baruch-landaus. The stench of abandoned rubbish mingles here with the latest perfumes. Here is Charing Cross Station, looking from above like a great diving helmet, its faceplate open to the world, its wide mouth spewing out metal slugs who chug merrily away across the wide bridge and over the river.

  Here are the Houses of Parliament, cast in the strange, scaly material so beloved of the Queen and her line. They glow in the darkness, an eerie green that casts flickering shadows over the water. Here, too, is the palace, that magnificent, impenetrable dome, surrounded by the famous Royal Gardens with their many acres of marshes and ponds.

  At a distance, instantly recognisable, is the Babbage Tower, rising into the dark skies like an ancient obelisk, strange devices marring its smooth surface like the marks of an alien alphabet. A light flickers constantly at its apex, warning away the airships that fly, day and night, above the city. Rise higher and you can see them, flying in a great dark cloud over the cityscape like an unkindness of ravens, like a siege of herons. Night and day the airships fly, the eyes and ears (so it is said) of the Lizard Kings, landing and taking off from the distant Great Western Aerodrome that lies beyond Chiswick and Hounslow.

  Pull away, return to the great avenue of the Strand and to the train station that belches constant smoke and steam at its extremity. One train, one metal slug, departs from its gaping mouth and snakes away, departing this side of the river, going south and west. Past grimy industrial Clapham it runs, and onwards, through the genteel surroundings of Putney, where wealthy residents dine in well-lit riverside establishments, past the guarded, hushed mansions of Kew, until it arrives at last in that sea of greenery and country charm that is the Queen's summer abode, the calm and prosperous town of Richmond-upon-Thames.

  A lone figure spews out of the metal slug. Orphan, running out of the station and onto the High Street, past rows of quaint, orderly shops dispensing gilttooled, Morocco-bound books, fresh flies (by Royal licence! screams the sign), fishing-rods and boat trips, delicate delicatessens and chemists and florists. Turning, he runs, breathing heavily up Hill Street, past the White Hart and the Spread Eagle and the Lizard and Crown, arriving, at last, out of breath, eyes stinging with sweat, at the open gates of the Royal Park.

  Harsh lights illuminated the wide open space now crammed with people. There was an air of festivity to the event and the smells of roasting peanuts and mulled wine wafted in the air, coming from the many stands that littered the outskirts of the crowd. Many people wore large, round, commemorative red hats – for Mars – or lizard-green – for Her Majesty. Many waved flags.

  Orphan pushed his way through the crowds, feeling desperation overcome him. Ahead of him he could see the outline of the majestic black airship that was to take the probe on the next, slow leg of its journey, over land and sea to Caliban's Island, where the launch would take place. Cursing, he pushed further, not heeding the resentful looks he received. Where was Lucy?

  Above the noise of the crowd a familiar voice rose amplified: Prime Minister Moriarty, delivering the last lines of a speech. He still had time!

  Glancing higher he saw the raised platform where Moriarty stood. It only took him an instant to recognise the assembled dignitaries: sitting beside the Prime Minister was the Prince Consort, a short, squat, lizardine being in full regalia, whose reptilian eyes scanned the crowd, his head moving from side to side. Occasionally a long, thin tongue whipped out as if tasting the air and disappeared back inside the elongated snout. Several seats down he thought he recognised Sir Harry Flashman, VC, the Queen's favourite, the celebrated soldier and hero of Jalalabad. On the Prime Minister's other side sat Inspector Adler, her face serious and alert. Surely, Orphan thought, such people could sense the danger before them!

  But no. Onwards he pushed, hoping against hope, but Moriarty's voice faded, the speech completed (too soon!) and the crowd burst into applause. Orphan made a last, desperate dash forward, and found himself at last in the front row of the waiting audience.

  Before him, the airship loomed. Below it, the probe rested, a small, metallic object, dwarfed by the ship, looking like an innocent ladybird turned upside down.

  The belly of the probe was open, and before it, approaching it with small, careful steps, was Lucy.

  She had almost reached the probe. In her hands was a book, resting on the Edison record she had so meticulously prepared. She bent down to place the objects in the hold of the probe…

  "Lucy!"

  The shout tore out of him like a jagged blade ripping loose, tearing at his insides. It rose in the open air and seemed to linger, its notes like motes of dust coming slowly to rest, trailing through the air…

  She paused. Her back straightened and she turned, and looked at him. Their eyes met. She smiled; she was radiant; she was happy he came.

  The book was still held in her hands.

  "Get away from the probe! The book is–"

  He began to run towards her. He saw her face, confused, her smile dissipating.

  And the book exploded.

  The sight was imprinted on Orphan's retinas. Lucy, incinerated in a split second. The airship burning, black silk billowing in flames. The probe hissing, its metal deforming. In that split second a burst of burning wind knocked Orphan back against the screams of the crowd. He landed on his back, winded, blinded, deaf.

  Shame filled him like molten silver, and with it the pain, spreading slowly across his body.

  I failed, he thought. She's dead. I failed her.

  Incinerated. Black silk billowing in flames. The book, disintegrating, and with it…

  Then the crawling pain reached his head and he screamed, and the darkness claimed him.

  SIX

  The Bookman Cometh

  What fond and waywar
d thoughts will slide

  Into a Lover's head!

  "O mercy!" to myself I cried,

  "If Lucy should be dead!"

  – William Wordsworth, "Lucy"

  The darkness came and went. In moments of lucidity he could hear voices speaking in a murmur beside him, and his battered senses were assaulted by the wafting smell of boiled cabbage.

  He shunned those moments of awakening, seeking only to return to the comforting darkness, where no dreams came and he was free of thought. But light came more and more frequently, accompanied by voices, cabbage, the feel of starched sheets against his cheek, until at last he was awake and could not escape.

  He lay with his eyes closed, his back pressed against the mattress. Perhaps if he lay like this long enough he could escape again into dreamless sleep.

  But no. The voices intruded, heedless of his despair.

  "He's coming around," said a firm, no-nonsense kind of voice, male and authoritative: a doctor, Orphan thought.

  A feminine voice, less harsh but carrying with it an equal – even greater – seal of authority, said, "It's about time."

  "I won't let you interrogate him," the first voice said, sounding angry. "He needs to be left in peace."

  The reply, Orphan thought, sounded tired, but there was a note of iron in the voice. "What he needs and what he is going to get are two different things, Doctor." She sighed; she had the trace of a Vespuccian accent. "Look, I'm sure you appreciate the importance of this investigation. I don't need to tell you what kind of pressure I'm under to get results. Moriarty–"

  "Moriarty isn't head of this hospital," the doctor said, but he sounded resigned, as if the battle was lost even before it started. "If you ask me, the whole Martian debacle was inevitable, and the idea of flight into space preposterous."

  "So vain is man, and so blinded by his vanity…" said his opponent quietly; it sounded like a well-used quote.

  Orphan opened his eyes.

  Leaning into him, their faces at an odd angle, so for a moment they seemed to him conjoined, the opposing faces of Janus, perhaps, one shadow and one light, were the two speakers. One was a man in his forties, with tanned, healthy skin, a thick moustache and friendly eyes that nevertheless, just at this moment, did not seem particularly pleased to be observing Orphan. The other face Orphan dimly recognised, and wished he hadn't: Inspector Adler, the one woman he had hoped against odds to continue to avoid.

  "I'm awake," he said.

  "Good, good," the doctor said. A small cough. "Welcome to Guy's Hospital." He glanced sideways at Inspector Adler and pulled back a little. "You've had quite a severe shock. Now, I don't want to do this, but the Inspector over here needs to ask you some questions, and she's been waiting for over two days for you to come around. Do you think you could talk to her? You don't have to."

  Orphan tried to laugh; it came out as a cough. "Oh, but I think I do," he said, and saw the doctor's small, helpless nod in reply. "I shall leave you then," the doctor said brusquely. "I will make sure there is a nurse immediately outside. If you need to terminate the interview at any point, just call for her."

  "Thank you," Orphan said. "I will."

  The doctor departed, and a moment later a nurse came in, a large woman in white, with a cheerful countenance. She helped Orphan sit up in his bed and propped two pillows under his head. "Don't you mind Dr W.," she said. "He's not had any sleep in two days, ever since that terrible accident in Richmond Park. He's a good man." She gave Irene Adler (who, throughout this, stood back without a word) an indecipherable look, said, "If you need anything, call. I'll be outside," and disappeared through the door.

  Orphan was left alone in the room with Inspector Adler.

  Now that she had him alone and to herself, the Inspector seemed in no hurry to begin the interview. She stood in silence and gazed at Orphan as if examining a small but fascinating exhibit. She looked, Orphan thought, like a person used to waiting; she looked like a copper.

  Orphan was grateful for the silence. In his mind Lucy's image still burned, a flame that threatened to consume him. Gilgamesh's letter, his maddened flight to Richmond, his push through the crowds, Moriarty's speech, Lucy's dissipating smile…

  Waves of black despair threatened to drown him.

  "You heard the nurse," Irene Adler said. She approached Orphan's bed and stood looking down at him, her face thoughtful, a little – he thought – sad. "What happened in the park was a terrible accident." Her arms were folded on her chest. She had, Orphan thought, a beautiful voice. A singer's voice. He looked into her eyes and found unexpected sympathy.

  "An accident," he said. The words were bitter in his mouth. They had the taste of preserved limes, needing to be spat out.

  "Yes," Irene Adler said. She let the silence drag. Then, "You know, I have been interested in you for a while."

  "Me?" His surprise was genuine. The Inspector smiled and shook her head at him, as if admonishing a wayward boy. "You are part of the Persons from Porlock, aren't you, Orphan? You and Tom Thumb and Wee Billy Conroy and 'Scalpel' Reece DuBois? Taking such delight in disrupting the work of eminent writers in the capital, dressed like clowns, quoting poor Ed Lear like the words of a mad Biblical prophet… and so sure of your invincibility, your invisibility, as if no one and nothing could touch you."

  The Persons from Porlock! He looked up at her, suddenly confused. "You knew?"

  "Of course I bloody knew," Irene Adler said. "As little as you clearly think of Scotland Yard, we are not fools… and certainly not clowns."

  "I…" He faltered. "Have you come to arrest me?"

  "Arrest you?" She seemed to contemplate the question. "For making a fool of yourself and sending up dear Oscar into the bargain? As tempting as that is, I think I'll decline."

  Orphan's confusion deepened. "But what we did… the Queen…"

  The Inspector shrugged. "Les Lézards may be overly fond of poetry," she said. "I, on the other hand, am not."

  Orphan felt himself blinking stupidly. The Inspector's words were close to treason. Why, he wondered, was she telling him this? What did she want? He said, "I don't understand."

  "No," Irene Adler said. "I don't suppose you do." She came closer to him then, and sat down on the edge of the bed, her face looking down directly into Orphan's. There were fine lines at the corners of her eyes, which were a deep, calm blue. "You're an enigma, Orphan," she said at last. "You show up at the Rose Theatre, and it ends up in flames. You show up a day later in Richmond Park – it ends up in flames. You belong to an organisation that terrorises writers and you live and work in the bookshop of a known seditionist. Why is it that trouble follows you around like a dog on a leash?" She leaned even closer towards him, and when she spoke, though her words were no more than a murmur, barely audible, they nevertheless hit Orphan like cold water evicted from a bucket and shook away the remnants of his dark sleep. "What is it about you that so draws the attention of the Bookman?"

  Orphan wandered through the streets like a lost minotaur in a hostile, alien maze. Somewhere, unseen but deadly, was the Bookman: Orphan felt his presence like a ghostly outline, a shapeless, formless thing, a disembodied entity that hid in the fog and watched him from the rooftops and the drains.

  What is it about you, Irene Adler had said, that so draws the attention of the Bookman?

  Her words kept running through his mind, a question lost in a maze of its own, seeking an answer he didn't know.

  He had not answered her. Irene Adler, after examining him for a long, uncomfortable moment, said, "Do you miss her?"

  A wave of anger took over Orphan. He could think of nothing to say, no suitable reply to that meaningless, cruel question. Looking at him, Irene Adler sighed. She said, "If it was in your power, would you bring her back?"

  Their eyes locked. It seemed to Orphan that an invisible contest was taking place, a battle of wills between them, like a jousting tournament for a prize that was unknown.

  He said, "She's dead."

  Th
e silence stretched between them, dark as an ocean under a moonless sky. Irene Adler stretched and walked away from him. She paced around the room, circling, coming closer, drawing back, as if trying to decide something unpleasant. She stopped by the window and looked out. When she spoke her face was turned away from Orphan. She said, "Death is the undiscovered country…"

  She waited. The light from the window touched her face and pronounced the fineness of her features. She turned her head and looked at Orphan, eyes tired but still full of life, containing within them both a challenge and a question.

  Orphan completed, as if compelled to answer, the Inspector's quote, the words torn out of him. "From whose bourn no traveller returns…" He sat up in the bed. "What do you want from me?" he whispered.