The Infernal Aether

by Oxley, Peter

  “Not quite the same though, is it? Being in a crowd of people, rather than having a good brotherly chat.”

  “Some other time,” I said. “I have much work to do this evening. I am sure they would understand.”

  “Hmm,” she said, looking me in the eye. I blushed and turned away.

  It was a relief when we pulled up to Maxwell’s house and I helped her down to the street. “Do pass on my regards,” I said. “And tell them I shall be in touch.”

  “Sure,” she said, picking up her bags and walking round to the door without looking back. I watched her go and then knocked on the roof for us to drive on.

  I arrived back at my office to find an uninvited visitor waiting on me, someone whom I recognised even though we had never met before.

  “Mr. Dickens, I presume,” I said.

  He nodded to me but remained seated, in the grandest chair in the room. He seemed smaller and frailer than I had pictured; the images of him on his books and journals had predictably understated his advancing years.

  “I was out for a walk,” said Dickens. “And found myself passing your office. I thought I would visit the... competition.”

  I smiled. “Your night-time walks through town are the stuff of legend. Although I did not think you wandered through this part of town quite so often.”

  “I go where my feet and my fancy take me,” he shrugged. “Please, do be seated.”

  I moved toward a seat opposite him without thinking and then caught myself. “Would you care for a drink?” I asked, trying to seize the initiative.

  He shook his head. “I do not care for alcohol at this time of night. I have much walking to do; much observing and thinking which I do not wish to be dulled.”

  I poured myself a large glass of whisky. “I myself have no such compunction,” I said with a smile which I hoped was urbane rather than that of the addict, and then sat down behind my desk. Pleasingly, this was sufficiently removed to force Dickens to turn in his seat in order to maintain eye contact.

  “So to what do I owe the honour and pleasure of your company?” I asked. “I must confess to having followed your career closely over the years. Indeed, I owe you a debt; much of your writing has influenced my own work.”

  “Yes. I can tell.”

  “I should even go so far as to say that you, sir, are one of my literary heroes.”

  “Really.” He pulled out a pocket-watch and scrutinised it before snapping it shut. “If that is the case, then maybe you would heed the advice of an elder statesman.”

  “But of course,” I said.

  “Your publishers,” he said. “You should be aware that they are not what they seem.”

  “Ah yes. Your own spat with them was highly publicised.”

  He leaned forward, cheeks reddening. “Spat, sir? Spat? They are charlatans of the lowest order, seeking to control content and tone whilst having not the faintest inclination toward any form of literary talent. It is all about the money to them, nothing but the money.”

  “Money is important,” I observed.

  “Pah!” he said, dismissing my point in the way that only the truly wealthy can. “There is no substitute for editorial control and freedom. True issues and talent should never be quashed simply because it sells more copies to tell a more convenient story. One day, my boy, you will realise this.”

  “And hence that is why you set up your own journal and sued them to prevent any passing off in your name,” I said.

  “Indeed, and you would be well advised to do likewise.”

  “You do not like Messrs. Bradbury and Evans much, do you?” I asked.

  “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “And I thank you for your counsel. However, as I am sure you will recall from your days of starting out as a struggling writer, it does not always pay to look a gift horse in the mouth. At least, not when one is just starting out in one’s career.”

  He pulled himself to his feet. “I have said my piece. Now I must be on my way; I have much ground to cover before it becomes too late. Heed my words, and remember: if you lay with the Devil, there is always a price.” He left, slamming the door behind him.

  “It is true what they say,” I observed to my glass of whisky before draining it. “Never meet your heroes.”

  CHAPTER 24

  A year went by and the anniversary of the first printing of Life’s Uncertain Voyage was soon upon us, marked by a lavish party thrown by my publishers at the home of the proprietor, William Bradbury. The lead-in to that happy event had been sullied only once, by an uninvited visitor in the days beforehand, whose arrival was a sign that news of my fortunes had spread into all sorts of social circles.

  At first I had assumed that the ragged old crone who stood at my doorway was a beggar or a gypsy come to sell some useless wares, and was in the process of shutting the door in her face when she said, in a scratchy East End accent: “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  I paused and then looked hard at that scrunched up face. My mind’s eye peeled back the years to reveal a memory of a younger and less weathered face, screwed up in hatred and spitting venom at me. I took a step backward and looked around.

  “Don’t worry,” she chuckled. “I’m ’ere alone. Walked all the way from St Giles, so I did. Just want to talk, to understand.” She hugged her arms tighter around her middle. “Not bein’ funny but could you find your way to lettin’ an old girl in out the cold? Promise I won’t bite.”

  I frowned at her, eying her shawl and wondering what manner of weapons she could have concealed under it. She sighed and dropped it to the ground. “I promise I’m not carryin’,” she said. “No knives, not even a chiv. I just wanna talk.”

  “You can forgive me my caution,” I said slowly. “The last I heard, you were threatening all manner of blood feuds under my name.”

  “Well,” she said, retrieving her shawl and wrapping it round her anew, “that was some years ago. I’ve had plenty of kids since then and plenty of time to reflect on how my little angel weren’t such an angel after all. I just want to know why you did what you did, that’s all. To get a bit of peace, a’fore I shuffle on.”

  I looked at her and was overcome by a deep sense of shame; the poor creature was clearly heading towards Death’s Door, if not actually standing at it. Indeed, given the harsh life she had clearly endured, she was the embodiment of the people whose cause I had sought to champion through my journal. I stepped aside and gestured for her to enter.

  “Please sit,” I said, showing her through to my office. “Can I offer you a drink?”

  She grinned toothlessly. “Now, a drop of gin wouldn’t go amiss.”

  Watkins, my manservant, was hovering uncertainly in the hallway and I nodded to him. “Two glasses, please,” I said, before turning back to the crone. “Now, how can I help you?”

  “You know what happened and you know why I’m here,” she said. “There were so many stories, back in the day, ’n’ I chose to believe the worst of them. Now I’m lookin’ at shufflin’ off ’n’ I just want to know, so I can go to my grave knowin’ the truth of it. That’s all—no blame, no shoutin’, just truth.”

  I nodded my thanks to the manservant as he handed us our drinks, leaving the bottle on my desk, and then waited as he left the room and shut the door behind him. I took a deep swig and then closed my eyes. “The truth... Now that is a difficult one.” I started to talk, hesitant and guarded at first, but then the words started to pour out of me as I made my confession to the one person in the world I never thought would receive it.

  ***

  I was never an evil child, but that is not to say I was not difficult or unruly. It was more that I chose to express myself through my ability to be the polar opposite of my brother, and it was in that way that I truly excelled. So whilst Maxwell was studious, obeyed the rules and had a general interest in learning—in particular the sciences, but really he was a veritable sponge for all manner of academia—I managed to car
ve a path for myself as the enemy of authority in all its forms. At school the playground and the sports fields were my homes, although that was not to say that I eschewed all forms of learning, for I discovered a keen interest in the arts and picked up my letters at an early age. It was just that I chose to hide such inconveniences behind a veneer of sullen rebellion.

  I was unwittingly assisted in my chosen path by my mother’s constant championing of Maxwell’s achievements, lauding and nurturing his great talents whilst I was largely ignored. Such was often the fate of the younger brother in the social circles to which my mother aspired; it was no small wonder that she did not just despatch me to the seminary and be done with it.

  I was forced to follow in Maxwell’s footsteps throughout my formative years, regardless of how ill-fitting they were, and this provided me with a constant stream of outlets for my rebellious nature, two instances of which were of direct relevance to the tale at hand.

  Whilst my reactions to authority earned me the tacit approval of my peers, it marked me out as a target for the older children as well as my teachers. Not that this in any way deterred me; if anything I wore my beatings and canings as a badge of honour and yet another symbol of how I was never meant to truly be a part of the world I found myself in.

  Maxwell and I initially tolerated each other, noting but not necessarily understanding our respective strengths. It was only when I joined him at boarding school, away from the protective shield of our mother, that Maxwell developed a protective nature toward me, and I toward him.

  Whilst he had to some extent taken me under his wing and tried to protect me from the worst excesses that his peers chose to inflict upon the new boys, this had in turn marked him out as a target for those very same peers. One day, I came across Maxwell pinned against a wall by a group of older lads, their sly taunts and beatings sending him to tears. A red mist descended over me and it was as though I were viewing my body from the outside; without thought for the relative strength and size of the others I threw myself into the fray, a small bundle of fists and feet.

  Surprise aided my cause significantly, at least initially, and I managed to make them fall back. For the first time in our lives, Max and I were side-to-side—if not quite shoulder-to-shoulder at that tender age—and facing a foe superior to ourselves. We turned slowly, counting the boys which surrounded us, six in all.

  “Going to have to fight our way out of this one,” I said, fists clenched and heart beating wildly.

  “But I do not know how,” said Maxwell.

  I grinned. “Just swing with everything you’ve got,” I said. “Let the red take over.” Even at that young age I was at home with the rash, impetuous, animalistic side of my nature, although I had not yet realised the full extent to which it was a curse as well as a benefit. I picked out the biggest one of our attackers and, before I could change my mind, charged at him with a shriek which was loud enough to rouse even the doziest of housemasters.

  *

  Our parents had died when I was nine years of age and, whilst it hit Maxwell the hardest and forced him even further into his solitary shell of academia, for me it removed the one last reason for me to be diligent in my studies. By the time I was fifteen years of age I was spending more time out of school than in it, gaining a real education by walking the streets and soaking in the world outside our staid school gates.

  In school I spent most of the time hiding in the library, not only from the teachers whose lessons I should have been attending but also from my peers, who had no inkling of my secret passions for languages and literature. It was there that I discovered the writing of such luminaries as Charles Dickens and Henry Mayhew, and through them developed a keen interest in the plight of the lower classes as well as another reason to despise my over-privileged peers.

  As a result, my trips outside the school gates took on more of an exploratory and almost educational nature, toward the rookeries and slums which have proliferated in and around London since time immemorial. And it was there that I fell in love.

  Not with the vibrancy of life on the streets, or the simple pleasures of the underclasses, or anything quite so contrived. No, my heart was stolen by a young girl selling her family’s wares from the back of a cart on the streets of the slum of St. Giles.

  The first time I saw her it were as though a lamp had flared into light where previously all had been grey and dank. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, which was not necessarily saying much given that I had spent most of my life to that point in the closeted world of all-boys’ boarding schools. Nonetheless, I must have stared at her for days before I finally plucked up the courage to go over and speak to her.

  It turned out that what I thought had been my subtlety in viewing her from afar had in fact been nakedly obvious gawping. Thankfully, Rachel was not repelled by my advances and we began a courtship which was as complex as it was unusual, given our respective social standings. Not that we allowed such trivialities to interfere with our blossoming love; we fancied ourselves as a modern-day Romeo and Juliet, defying the forces which strove to keep us apart.

  I had precious little family to restrain me, as Maxwell was by that time at Cambridge University and so was blissfully unaware of my continuing travails, whilst my teachers had long ago given up any hope of reforming me and were instead counting the days to when I would no longer be considered their responsibility. Rachel, on the other hand, was burdened by a father who only kept her on the family’s market stall because she was a good seller; he made no secret of the fact that he dearly wanted to sell her other, more personal, wares on the streets at night. He was a controlling man, who Rachel believed would see my involvement as a threat to his plans rather than an opportunity to raise the family’s social and financial standing. As a result, she kept our courtship a secret from her family. Whilst I secretly questioned her logic, I was in thrall to her and, as far as I was concerned, her views were mine. Thus it was that the only course of action available to us was to elope, far away from her family and my own indistinct familial commitments.

  Her father was not the only one to potentially stand in the way of our happiness, for there was another boy, slightly older than me, who also had designs on my Rachel. His name was Roger and he worked the markets alongside her, having known her since childhood. They were good friends, and he viewed my presence as an unwanted intrusion into a relationship which, whilst she viewed it as purely friendship, he clearly wanted to be much more.

  As it became clear that Rachel and I were fast developing into something more serious, Roger became more distant and aggressive toward me. This behaviour intensified until one day he followed and cornered me in a dark street, far enough removed from their neighbourhood to ensure that we would not be disturbed.

  “What do you want?” I asked, my brash confidence dented by the sight of the knife held casually in his left hand.

  “I want you to leave Rache alone,” he said in a sullen, slurring voice. “The likes of you aren’t welcome round ’ere.”

  “I do not bow to the likes of you,” I said. “Now get out of my way.”

  He grinned. “I hoped you’d say that.” He lunged at me with the force and speed of a boy who had learnt to fight the hard way, on the streets. He feinted with his right fist and swept the knife into the space where he expected me to dodge. His grin and almost relaxed manner showed how easy he expected his victory to be, a hardened street fighter against a closeted toff.

  However, he did not know that I had had a tough physical education myself, an upbringing borne of countless beatings by cowards twice my size. Compared to them, this oaf was a mere pup.

  I stepped into him and within the arc of his swinging knife. His right fist caught me across the back of my head but I barely noticed, using the momentum it lent me to bring my forehead crashing down smartly onto the bridge of his nose. He yelped and dropped the knife, clutching at his bleeding face. I kicked the blade away into the shadows and then felled him with a fist to his sto
mach, knee to the groin and then a final kick to his torso. He lay at my feet, groaning, as I leant down to speak to him. “You leave us both alone, you understand? Try this on me again, and I swear I shall not be so tender with you.”

  With that I ran back to Rachel, my heart beating wildly, to advise her of what had happened. Whilst her first instinct was to rush to Roger’s aid, I managed to convince her otherwise and that furthermore we had to hasten our plans to elope. I wanted to stay with her but she convinced me that our best chance of success lay in a continued pretence of normality. Besides, it was me that Roger clearly held a grudge against; he adored Rachel too much to harm her. We agreed that we would rendezvous that night, at midnight, and from there we would make our escape to the Continent.

  That night, after an hour’s wait and no sign of my love, I began to fear the worst. My breath shortened and my heart pounded as my mind raced through a thousand scenarios, each one more terrible than the last. Indecision racked my entire being; whilst I knew that I should stay in the agreed meeting place, I needed to search for her. Finally, my restlessness won the day and I set off toward her neighbourhood at a sprint, eyes wide and checking every shadow as I went.

  There was no sign of her along my route or in her street and I eventually found myself standing outside of the tenement which her family shared with five others, toying with the idea of knocking and asking to see her. I needed to know that she was safe and well, even if she had been held back by her father on some pretext, but I was also in command of enough of my wits to realise that the act of checking could just tighten the net round her further. I resolved to wait until morning, when she would come out to begin her chores, and retreated to find a suitable place to hide.

  As I did so I heard a sound from an alleyway close by and peered in to see a hunched figure, sniffing into his hands. I was about to move on and give the wretch privacy when the hands dropped to reveal the bruised and weeping face of Roger. He grinned at me with wide, tear-filled eyes. “I hope you’re happy now,” he said in a broken voice. “You made me do it. If I can’t have her, neither of us can.”