by Oxley, Peter
“Do what?”
“Turn down money. Terribly impolite, you know. Not to mention wasteful. If you have no need I am sure we could find someone who does...”
Maxwell chuckled. “You must forgive my brother. He hates to see anyone turn money down.”
“Not all of us are as good at hoarding as you are, Max,” I chided him. “By the look of their house, the Pattersons have plenty to spare. Unlike some of us.”
“I have no need of money,” N’yotsu said. “The satisfaction of besting the demon is my reward. Now if you will excuse me, I shall retire to my lodgings; it has been a long night.”
Maxwell shook N’yotsu’s hand vigorously. “I have learnt so much this evening. I should relish the opportunity to continue our acquaintance.”
N’yotsu smiled. “But of course. I plan to remain in London for at least a few more weeks. I am staying at a place called Claridge’s, on Brook Street.”
“I know of it,” said Maxwell. I raised my eyebrows; it certainly seemed to be the case that our acquaintance did not want for money.
Maxwell and I watched as our acquaintance disappeared into the distance. “I am not sure that you should meet him again, brother,” I said. “I suspect that he is the type of person who attracts mishap.”
Maxwell grinned at me.
“You are going to ignore me, are you not?” I said with a sigh. “And there was I thinking that I was the foolhardy one!”
“Things change,” he said, grinning. “This is an unprecedented opportunity for me to revisit some theories which I had discarded as being dead-ends. In any case, you will be there to ensure I come to no harm.”
“As always,” I mused as we started on our way. “But who, pray tell, will look out for me?”
PART TWO - THE WHITECHAPEL INCIDENT
CHAPTER 6
Although I have often adopted—willingly or otherwise—the role of adventurer and man-about-town, it is an unfortunate fact that I have for some time been a creature of habit. Indeed, I often indulge in practices that some may frown upon, but my attempts to do so unobserved often fall foul of my preferences to do so in the same places, time after time.
Thus it was that my friend Eve had no trouble tracking me down, despite my resolution to spend the evening alone in quiet relaxation in a darkened corner of The One Tun, my favoured tavern on Saffron Hill.
“’Ello Gus,” she said, throwing herself on the bench opposite me in a distinctly unladylike fashion.
I blinked, forcing my focus away from my musings and back to the smoke-filled tavern. I noticed that my hand was still gripping a tankard of ale and I took a long swig, grimacing at the sour taste. Until that point I had been engaged in maudlin self-analysis, a process which—as always—I facilitated through the liberal use of alcohol and narcotics. The purpose of these substances was twofold: initially, to help establish the necessary emotional state for intense self-flagellation and, later, to help me achieve blessed oblivion when the memories became too much to bear. This was my penance, my way of assuaging my troubled soul for the things I had seen and done. But in particular it was the only way I had to acknowledge the memory of the one person who had meant the world to me, and whom I had so spectacularly failed when she needed me the most. Her face flashed across my mind’s eye, a knife to my soul, and I took another swig of tepid ale in an attempt to drive it away.
Eve waved her hand at the bar and a tankard appeared in front of her. She looked at me with raised eyebrows, clearly expecting me to pay. I offered her my best glowering expression, one which came naturally in my alcohol and laudanum-induced state.
“You’ll be lucky,” said the serving girl. “He’s been drowning his sorrows in the same beer for the past few hours, and that one we had to give him for half price, just to stop him moaning at us.”
It was true. That day—and that beer—marked the very end of my inheritance. It was an inheritance which had been immense fun in the spending, having taken me to places most people would hardly dream of, let alone visit. Money, however, is a fickle mistress and I had not mastered the art that so many had of turning it into yet more money. My special talent was spending it as quickly and as extravagantly as possible. As a result, I was no longer a man of means slumming it amongst the denizens of the East End; I was now just another East End pauper.
I knew that I had to earn a living, and writing was my choice of career. However, at the very time I needed it most, my muse appeared to have deserted me, leaving a hole which that morning I had resolved to fill with as many illicit substances as I could find. It was a method which had served many of my much more esteemed predecessors very well, although so far it had served only to provide me with a spinning head and a frightful hunger.
Eve pulled a face and removed a purse from her bosom. I blinked, transfixed, as she removed two coins and handed them to the serving girl. “Give him a fresh one,” she said.
I eyed the tankard which appeared in front of me. “I am not used to being bought drinks by prostitutes,” I said.
“Why, what do we normally buy you?” she asked and then threw her head back and cackled. “Oh come on, Gus. Cheer up!” Her laugh revealed a mouth which was only half-full of teeth, something which would have repelled me in times gone by. However, having spent so much time around the area, I was accustomed to the many symptoms of their lifestyle and lack of wherewithal. Symptoms which I would no doubt be suffering myself soon enough.
“So, where are your friends?” she asked.
I snorted into my tankard. “And what friends might they be?”
“You know, that big group of loud people who always hang around you.”
“Ah, them. Well, it is safe to say that they are no longer my friends.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Why? What did you do?”
“I ran out of money. It transpired that they were not the kind of friends who stick around when the funds are exhausted.”
“They don’t sound like any sort of friends to me.”
I managed a half-smile. “That is as may be. However, the fact remains; if you are looking for trade then you are wasting your time. Even more so than usual.” I raised my tankard in a toast. “The barmaid was right—I have no money.”
“Ah, but Gus,” she said, leaning forward and treating me to her particular aroma of tobacco, gin and beer. “It’s your body I want, not your money.”
I frowned, not quite sure exactly where this exchange was going. I glanced around to see if there was anyone else watching, whether I was the victim of a joke for the crowd.
She laughed again. “Don’t look so worried! I just need a little favour, that’s all.”
“What sort of favour?” I asked.
She came round to sit next to me. I shuffled along the bench to make room for her but she moved along with me so that our shoulders were touching, as though we were co-conspirators in some disreputable plot.
“You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?” she whispered.
“Him?”
“Yes, him.” She looked at me with raised eyebrows, clearly expecting something more from me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Could you narrow it down a bit?”
“Oh come on, Gus!” she exclaimed, then looked round nervously and lowered her voice yet further. “The Devil.”
I was beginning to think that I was still experiencing illusions from the laudanum. “My Bible studies are quite rusty,” I said.
“Oh come on!” she said. “You must have heard the rumours about the creature that stalks the streets in the early hours, picking off girls when they’re on their way home? They say it can jump over buildings and walk through walls.”
“If it can walk through walls, why go to the effort of jumping over buildings?” I asked. “Sounds like quite a waste of—”
“But you’ve heard of him?”
“No,” I admitted.
“But you’re here every day,” she said. “Everyone’s talking about it. How could you not have heard one of the stories? I th
ought you were a writer, for God’s sake!”
That hit home rather too hard for my liking. “Clearly not a very good one,” I muttered, raising the tankard to my lips.
“Sorry, Gus,” she said, placing an arm round my shoulders. “That wasn’t fair. It’s just that I’m scared. We all are.”
“All right,” I said, in the hope that at least accepting her apology would make her go away more quickly. “But I fail to see what this has to do with me. You said you wanted a favour.”
“Yes,” she said. “Just a little one. This Devil only attacks girls on their own, but my roommate’s gone off without me. I want you to escort me home.”
I sighed. I had wanted a quiet night, an opportunity to wallow in my own company; I really did not fancy walking the streets at this hour, let alone acting as a bodyguard against demonic attackers. Even if an assailant did surface I would be precious little help in my present state.
“What about your pimp?” I asked. “Shouldn’t he be the one to look out for you?”
She gestured at the far corner of the tavern, where a drunken group were loudly carousing. Amidst the throng I could make out the hunched form of her pimp, being propped up by another man and singing loudly. “He don’t care,” said Eve. “He’s got his takings for the night, and he ain’t going to pause in spending them for the likes of me.” She leant closer to me, her rather earthy smell filling my nostrils. “I’ll make it worth your while,” she said.
“Oh, Eve, now,” I said. “I really don’t think, I mean we’re friends and I’m not really in the mood...”
She laughed again. “Since when did you get so prudish? Is it all them drugs? I told you they’d do you no good. No, I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about this.” She reached into her bosom, removed the purse and started counting out coins.
“Eve,” I said. “That must be half your night’s takings.”
“No it ain’t,” she said with a wink. “I’m good, remember. But I’m also scared. Seems to me you need the money and I need the help, so what do you say?”
I frowned. “I’ve never taken money from a prostitute,” I said.
“Look at it as payment for services rendered,” she said with a grin. “So what do you say?”
I gathered the coins up. It was never wise to leave money lying around in a place like that. “But strictly as a business transaction, you understand?” I said.
“Of course,” she said. “You can be my whore.”
“I’d prefer you thought of me as your pimp,” I said.
“I don’t,” she said. “I’ve already got one of them and he’s an arse. Come on, whore!” She reached down to my seat and squeezed.
*
We walked through the darkened streets, arm in arm, me trying not to jump at every sound from every doorway and alleyway we passed. Eve hummed tunelessly.
“Must you do that?” I asked.
“Sorry,” she said. “Just a mite nervous.”
I laughed. “What chance do I have, if you’re nervous?”
“What do you mean?”
“These streets are your home. You’ve spent all your life on them. If you’re nervous, then where does that leave a pretentious dandy like me?”
She laughed. “I’ve seen you in a fight. You can handle yourself.”
I let out a deep breath, which then swiftly caught in my throat when a huge, fire-breathing creature landed in front of us.
It is at this moment that I should like to say that I valiantly thrust myself in between the girl and the interloper, facing the creature down with a brave word and even braver actions. However, to say so would be a lie.
I froze. The creature was immense, standing at least two if not three heads taller than me. Its body was a mass of scaly muscles and it glared down at us with eyes that were just like red hot coals: both in colour and the fact that they steamed slightly in the cold night air. Most of its face seemed to be taken up by its mouth, which was opened to reveal far too many teeth. Atop its head were two horns, curving backwards.
The creature roared and swung an enormous arm, batting me aside as if I were a cricket ball being hit rather cleanly for six. I landed, winded, against a wall and could only watch helplessly as the creature broke Eve’s neck with an almost casual gesture before letting out another terrible roar and then leaping up into the sky.
CHAPTER 7
The sound of my fist upon Maxwell’s front door competed with the increasing volume of my curses. I glanced around, sure that at any moment a hand would descend upon my shoulder, or worse.
I had a sudden flash of insight and pulled up his doormat. Sure enough, there was his spare key. Predictability was a trait which definitely ran in the Potts family.
I darted into the house and, once I was sure that the door was securely locked behind me, shouted: “Max! Max, where are you?”
There was no reply but I ploughed on regardless toward his laboratory where I found him with N’yotsu, his new partner in crime.
It is worth pointing out at this juncture that science was Maxwell’s life, and the make-up of his house reflected that fact. To that end, it was misleading to refer to his house as containing a laboratory. His whole house was his laboratory. No room was safe from the encroachments of his experiments, equipment and scribblings. So to be strictly accurate I should say that I found him in his main downstairs laboratory, a room which other people would refer to as the sitting room.
The pair of them were bent over some device or another, the purpose of which I neither could, nor particularly wanted to, fathom. N’yotsu looked up briefly as I approached and greeted me with a friendly: “Augustus, how good to see you.”
I glared at them both. Maxwell was more interested in their labours than my abrupt entry, and muttered something which drew N’yotsu’s attention back to their infernal device.
“I need your help,” I said and was rewarded by a noncommittal grunt from the other side of the room.
I bunched my hands into fists, tensing my arms as much in frustration as to try and stop the uncontrollable shaking. “Max,” I said, increasing the volume and firmness of my voice. “I really need to talk to you. Both of you. Right now.”
Maxwell looked up and finally focused on me. “Good heavens, Gus,” he said. “You look terrible. Even worse than usual. What have you been up to?”
I slumped into a seat, vaguely aware but not caring that it was covered in papers. To his credit, Maxwell allowed only a flicker of annoyance to pass across his face at my treatment of his carefully arranged clutter.
N’yotsu appeared at my side with a glass of water, which I accepted with a nod of thanks. “I’m in trouble, Max,” I said.
“Again,” he remarked.
“Serious trouble. Extremely serious trouble. The police think... They think I killed someone.”
“Again?” remarked Maxwell. I shot him a particularly poisonous glare and he held up his hand in apology.
“Did you?” asked N’yotsu.
“No, of course not!”
“Then why do they assume that you have killed someone?” said N’yotsu.
“Please try and not be so innocently logical for once in your life,” I snapped. He shot me a hurt look. “I am sorry,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “A girl was killed and I was there. I somehow managed to escape with my life but I was seen near her body. I panicked and ran and before I knew it there was a hue-and-cry being raised against me.”
“So why don’t you go to the police and explain their error?” asked Maxwell. Both he and N’yotsu looked back at me with the same infuriating naïveté.
“Max,” I said, fighting to keep my voice level. “Do you really think the police will take my word over everyone else’s? I’d be swinging from the end of a rope in Newgate in no time.”
“I do not understand,” said N’yotsu. “Why is your word worth any less than anyone else’s?”
“Let us just say that my brother has something of a reputation,” said Maxwell.
“But surely the police would be amenable to the truth.” He turned to me. “I assume you have an alibi?”
“Not as such,” I admitted. “Aside from the…creature…and poor Eve, I was the only one there.”
“You watched it happen?”
“Yes, and before you ask I was powerless to prevent the murder. The perpetrator was somewhat... demonic.”
“In what way? Are you sure?” asked N’yotsu. I knew that this would attract his attention; in the short period of time in which we had known him, N’yotsu had displayed an impressively single-minded approach to the pursuit of demons, and in particular toward the creature which we had confronted just under a week ago in the Pattersons’ haunted house.
“It leapt down from a three storey building and then killed my friend with its bare hands. And it had horns growing out of its head. On reflection, I am reasonably convinced that it was demonic.”
My sarcasm was lost on them both.
“Could it be the same demon which you have been hunting?” Maxwell asked N’yotsu. “The one we encountered the other day, when we met you?”
N’yotsu shook his head slowly. “I suspect not. It does not sound like that demon’s modus operandi. It prefers a less direct method of chaos, as far as I can tell.” He turned to me. “Was there anything else about it which might help me identify it?”
I stared at him, and Maxwell finally seemed to pick up on my mood. “Are you all right? How did you manage to escape unharmed?”
“It seemed to lose interest in me once its bloodlust had been sated. I am ashamed to say that I ran as fast as my legs would carry me.” I threw my hands in the air. “The girl was dead; there was little else I could do!”
“No one here is accusing you of cowardice,” said Maxwell, holding up his hands to placate me. “What should we do to assist you?”
“I need to clear my name. Help me to find the beast. If we can provide evidence then the police might just believe in my innocence.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“I know where it was. We should start our search at the scene of the crime. That is as good a starting point as any, I suppose.”