Trapping Fog

by William Stafford

  “Well, ain’t that a bleedin’ relief,” Fishface mopped at his brow with a handkerchief. “Only I don’t want to think of the repercussions if he’d been killed by your contraption - and under my instructions!”

  Typical copper, thought I. Covering his own back first. On the other hand, it was only a bleedin’ toff we was talking about and a bleedin’ arrogant one at that.

  “Here,” I said to Doctor Hoo, “What have you done to him?” I nodded at the sleeping pillock on the table, in particular his crotch region.

  Before Hoo could speak, the toff sat up, bolt upright, with a gasp and a scream. He threw off the sheet, hopped off the table and ran around the lab like a cat with its Aristotle on fire. Well, I say ‘ran’ - his new leg was definitely in charge. The rest of him dragged behind it. Me and the copper watched in amusement and alarm but old Doctor Hoo, he just stood there - I’ve never known a doctor to be more patient, ha, ha! - until, after a few more laps, the toff tired himself out. Hoo injected something into the toff’s arm. The toff swooned and fainted; me and the copper just about catched him in time and we heaved him back onto the table. I gathered up the sheet but the copper was pointing at the toff’s privates - or rather, where his privates ought to be.

  Instead of his tallywacker, there was another of Hoo’s contraptions, like a little brass telescope.

  “What the hell is that?” gasped Fishface.

  “Improved model,” said Doctor Hoo. And I could tell he was proud of his handiwork.

  “You mean,” I pointed at the device, “you’ve swapped his whatsit for a - whatever that is?”

  “Enhanced,” said Doctor Hoo with special emphasis. “Much better.”

  Inspector Kipper snatched the sheet and draped it over the toff. When the thing was hidden, the copper seemed more at ease. “I don’t know what you’ve got going on here, Hoo,” he lowered himself onto a chair, “And, frankly, I don’t want to know. He’s alive, so thanks for that; but if you can’t help me catch Foggy Jack, the deal’s orf.” He looked directly at me. “Oh, don’t worry; I’m not taking you back to the nick. I reckon you’ve got enough problems.”

  On the table, Lord Beighton stirred. He groaned a little and opened his eyes - it took him several attempts.

  “I say,” he said. “What have I been drinking? And may I have some more, what?” He laughed. He laughed alone. He looked from Hoo’s stark face to mine, to the copper’s and back again, and he appeared to remember something.

  “Oh, no,” he said quietly. “Oh, no; oh, no.”

  He lifted the sheet and peered beneath it at his naked, supposedly enhanced, body. He let the sheet fall then lifted it again, as if that would change the view.

  “Good God, man!” he cried. “What have you done to me?”

  “Improvement,” said Doctor Hoo.

  The toff looked aghast.

  “Bigger,” Hoo continued. “Longer. Faster. Harder.”

  The toff blenched. “Well, of course it’s bloody harder - it’s made of brass! What the bloody hell am I supposed to do with it?”

  The copper got to his feet, looking like the world’s weariest man. “Listen,” he said. “I’m heading back to the nick. Leave you gentlemen to discuss the finer points of brass rubbing.”

  “You’re a policeman!” the toff accused, reaching for Kipper’s arm. “Arrest that man! Arrest both of them! What they’ve done to me - it’s diabolical!”

  Kipper sidestepped the toff’s grasp. “I don’t think they’ve dyed your bollocks at all.” He looked to Hoo. “You haven’t, have you?”

  Hoo was inscrutable.

  “Listen,” Kipper looked the toff squarely in the eye. “These men saved your life so think about that before you start shouting the odds.” He nodded to me and Hoo. “Gentlemen,” he said and he headed for the door.

  Twenty-Six

  Kipper knew it was a mistake, trying to get one up on Bigby by recruiting that weirdo and his ne’er-do-well sidekick. What was I thinking, he scolded himself? He felt his way down the spiral staircase, descending into the inky gloom, bent on self-castigation rather than where he was going.

  A loud crash brought him to the present. It was quickly followed by another. And a third. Kipper froze. It sounded like something heavy was being thrown against the outer door. Again and again until on the seventh or eighth try, the door yielded and someone (or something!) burst through it and entered the warehouse, leaving a fog-filled hole in its wake.

  Behind and above Kipper, the lab door opened and Hoo and his assistant came out onto the landing, bearing lamps.

  “What the bloody hell?” said Deacus.

  “Ssh!” insisted Doctor Hoo.

  “Is that you, Kipper?” Deacus trained his lamplight on the staircase. “Making all this bleedin’ racket?”

  “I can assure you it ain’t!” Kipper whispered back. He climbed the stairs - there is safety in numbers after all. “Something’s got in,” he told them.

  “Thing?” queried Hoo.

  “Somebody then. I don’t know; I didn’t see it, did I?”

  “Body?” queried Hoo.

  “Some one, then. Bashed the bloody door in like it was made of paper.”

  Hoo and Deacus exchanged a glance.

  “What?” said the inspector. He did not like the way the lamplight made gargoyles of their faces but he stepped closer to them all the same.

  “I think we’d better shift ourselves,” suggested Deacus.

  “I tell you, one more bang like that and I just might.”

  “No, Inspector, I said ‘shift’ with an F.”

  Below, something moved in the stygian darkness. Something heavy. Dragging...

  Kipper held his breath.

  “It’s coming for us!” gasped Deacus.

  “The light,” rumbled Doctor Hoo. He extinguished his lamp. Deacus moved to do the same but, panicked, Kipper made a grab for his lantern. They wrestled for a few seconds and the lamp flew from their clutches and sailed in a graceful arc over the stairwell, to land with a crash and an explosion of flame on the floor. The fire illuminated a shadowy figure; Kipper let out a yelp and scrambled for the laboratory door.

  “Keep that thing away from me!” he cried, shouldering the door open.

  The battered, contorted frame of Coppélia lunged for the staircase. Fire spread across the floor and errant flames nibbled at her wig and clothing.

  “No,” said Hoo.

  “Sorry, boss,” Deacus stammered, “Only we forgot about her, what with all the excitement. But she’s back now so no harm done, eh?”

  Fire glinted in the doctor’s narrow eyes as he watched his creation stagger toward him.

  “How?” he said.

  That took Deacus by surprise. “What do you mean, ‘How?’? I thought you’d made her do this. Given her some sort of homing instinct.”

  “Prostitute,” said Hoo grimly. “Not pigeon.”

  Coppélia continued her climb, her head lolling like that of a hanged man. Her wig was completely ablaze, like a raging halo, and her clothes were dropping off her in cinders - not just her clothes, Deacus realised: her skin! The stench of burning hair and rubber and hot metal filled the air, overpowering even the smell of the smoke that was billowing below, as the conflagration engulfed the ground floor. Glass cracked and tinkled into pieces in the windows of the kitchen corner.

  “This whole place is going up,” said Deacus. “Better get a wiggle on.”

  But Doctor Hoo was transfixed. He stared at the approaching automaton until he was only inches from its fiery embrace. Deacus pulled him away and the arms closed around empty space. He bundled the doctor into the laboratory, where they found Kipper trying to get the toff to get dressed and get out.

  Deacus slammed the door. Seconds later, Coppélia’s fist came through
it, splintering the wood into matchsticks.

  “It’s that - creature!” wailed Lord Beighton. “She’s come to finish me orf - and not in the sexual way.” He tried to station the inspector between himself and the monstrous apparition that was tearing is way into the room with apparently very little effort.

  Hoo stood stock still, watching. His head shook but only slightly from side to side. No, no, no...

  Deacus did his best to shepherd the toff and the copper to a window. “Look lively, gents,” he urged. “For orf we must bugger and sharpish.”

  Smoke was rising between the floorboards and the heat of the inferno beneath was becoming unbearable. Deacus grabbed a stool and hurled it through the windowpane.

  “Get out!” he instructed the others. He went back for Doctor Hoo, again yanking him free of the contraption’s clutches at the last second. “Come on, Doctor! Time for us to go, mate!”

  He pushed and bundled the doctor toward the window. The floor had begun to burn. Still, Coppélia kept coming, her hands reaching and grasping, her skeletal framework exposed in patches.

  Deacus was dismayed to see Kipper and the toff still there. “Jump, you tits!”

  “But - the river –” the toff protested.

  “But - the fire!” Deacus mocked him.

  It was the sight of the dollymop, hideously disfigured, that spurred Lord Beighton on. He tossed himself out of the broken window and dropped out of sight. A splash followed his disappearance.

  “Go on, then,” Deacus nodded at the inspector. “Out you go.”

  “No; after you,” said Kipper.

  “After you! Listen, we ain’t got time for social niceties. Get out the pissing window, will you?”

  Kipper bristled but did as he was told.

  After the splash, Deacus dragged the doctor to the window. “Come on; snap out of it, Doctor.” He grunted. The doctor would not budge. He extended a hand toward Coppélia’s. Their fingertips were barely an inch apart.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Deacus intervened. He kicked the dollymop in her belly, knocking her backwards, then he head-butted Hoo in his and rushed him to the open window, the night sky and the fresh air.

  As they plummeted to the river, the warehouse collapsed in on itself. Flames stretched for the heavens, their ravenous crackles like demonic laughter. Orange and gold shone across the water like spilled paint. Four heads bobbed on the surface, watching the building burn.

  “I say!” gasped Lord Beighton. “That’s put a stop to her, what!”

  “Not exactly,” said Kipper. “Look!”

  From the toppling structure, a flaming figure swan dived into the river.

  “Gawd help us,” Kipper murmured.

  The men scrambled to the shore with Kipper assisting the toff and Deacus having to drag Doctor Hoo along with him. They watched and waited on the mud bank, scanning the water for signs.

  “What the bloody hell is that thing?” said Lord Beighton. “It’s like a thing possessed.”

  Doctor Hoo turned his head. “Repeat!”

  “What?” the toff blinked. “All I said was she’s like a thing possessed.”

  Hoo nodded slowly.

  “What?” said Deacus. “What?”

  But Hoo did not respond.

  “Oh, Gawd!” cried Kipper, pointing frantically. “Here she comes!”

  An arm broke the surface, rippling the reflections of the blaze. With dogged determination, Coppélia crawled out onto the shore. Her insides, most of them visible, popped and twanged as she dragged herself by the hands out of the water and toward the men, all of whom were standing agog. All bar one, that is, for Doctor Hoo approached the relentless robot. He raised his foot and brought his boot heel down sharply on the automaton’s neck. Coppélia came to a sudden and total stop.

  “Coo,” said Deacus. “She weren’t giving up, was she?”

  “Good lord,” said the toff. “Perhaps she couldn’t get enough of me, what!” He essayed a laugh; no one joined in.

  Inspector Kipper gave the creature’s body a tentative prod with his toe. “Quite dead, is she?”

  “Never alive,” said Hoo.

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Here,” said Deacus. “Wasn’t you storming off in a huff or something? You wanted no more to do with us, if you recall.”

  “What?” said Kipper. “Oh, yes. My grand exit was waylaid by that thing. Damned right I want no more to do with you. Goodnight, gentlemen - for want of a better word.”

  He picked his way across the mud and detritus, his clothes dripping and his shoes squelching, heading for a jetty that would take him to the dock road.

  Hoo, Deacus and Lord Beighton watched him go, but a strange voice called him back.

  “Don’t go, Inspector!”

  The men were alarmed to find the voice was coming from the almost-severed head of Coppélia. One eye faced upwards, rolling at the sky. Kipper stopped in his tracks and, with a chill in the very marrow of his bones, turned slowly around.

  “Please don’t go,” the shrill voice implored. “It’s me, ain’t it? Your old mucker.”

  “Sprite?” Kipper gasped.

  “Got it in one.” The lone eye winked.

  Twenty-Seven

  Well! Nobody weren’t expecting that! I can say that without fear of contradiction. I could tell by the look on Hoo’s boat that he hadn’t told her to say none of those words. He was as surprised as the rest of us. That copper, he stopped in his tracks and all, and he came back, squelching across the mud to get a closer look. The toff’s eyes were large as plates - dinner plates, I mean, not feet - and he was trying to edge behind the doctor for safety.

  “Hoi,” says the voice. “Get me on my plates again, will you? Only it ain’t too dignified lying in the dirt. It’s all right - the water’s put the fire out.”

  We hesitated a bit but Hoo nodded so the copper and me we lifted the damaged dollymop from the mud and tried to stand her upright.

  “Hello, again, Inspector,” the eye rolled around to Fishface. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Ho, ho!” the toff chuckled. “Sounds like the inspector’s been dipping his wick, what!”

  I don’t know who looked the more insulted, the copper or the lopsided dollymop.

  “You know her?” said Doctor Hoo, placing a hand on the copper’s shoulder.

  “I bloody don’t!” said the copper. “I mean, we have met. Under different circumstances, of course.”

  “Explain,” said Hoo.

  “Yeah,” I chimed in. I was keen to hear this and all.

  “No,” said Coppélia - or rather, whoever was speaking through her. “I think I’d better do the talking. I have a lot to say. But let’s get indoors, shall we? I don’t like standing out here with the damp air whistling round me Aris.”

  ***

  Where could we take her? The warehouse weren’t nothing but a smouldering bonfire. Hoo said ‘Harley Street’ so it fell to me to try to find us a cab. ‘Make it two,’ said the toff. He said he’d had enough adventure for one night and was going back to his gaff on Grosvenor Square, and I said couldn’t we all go there instead? But he weren’t having none of it and as soon as the first Hansom shows up, he jumps in without a by-your-leave and orf he buggers.

  “Ain’t that bleedin’ charming,” muttered this Sprite person, speaking through the dollymop.

  “Who are you? What are you?” I arsked. Reasonable questions, I’m sure you’ll agree.

  “Not out here,” Sprite urged. She’d got both eyes working together now, and they shifted from side to side as if she suspected someone was about and earwigging.

  She kept her lip buttoned in the cab and all the way across town. It was only when we was in Hoo’s Harley Street office with the doors and windows cl
osed and the curtains drawn that she seemed to relax. Hark at me - going on like she was a real person - but there was something about her. Like when you watch a puppet show - and who don’t love a puppet show? - and you forgets they ain’t real. You forget they’re on strings or they’ve got somebody’s hand up them. Well, this Sprite was working Coppélia so well, all sorts of expressions danced across her boat, and the way she moved and all. She was wearing the dollymop like a costume, I suppose you might say. Well, you don’t have to, on account of I’ve just said it.

  The four of us sat in a ring of chairs in Hoo’s office with a candle on the floor between us. Giant, shadowy copies of ourselves reached up the walls to the ceiling. It wasn’t half eerie, I can tell you, but that was nothing compared to what come next. Here’s what that Sprite told us and it’s a tale and a half and no mistake.

  ***

  My name is lost, forgotten as the language of my people is forgotten. You know me as ‘Sprite’ for that is the closest approximation in your tongue of what I am. I was here, on this island, long before your kind arrived. Long before the trees, even. Long before anything but the elements, the wind and rain.

  We were free then, my people, to roam or settle as we chose. But then, you came. In boats you came and claimed these islands as your own. Imagine the land as a map; you spread across it like a stain across paper. But we accommodated you, despite the ravages you visited on the land. Had we known you would bring him with you, your presence would not have been tolerated.

  He - you call him Foggy Jack, as though he is a pet or favourite! He is born of the evil that men do. Murders, wars, and all the ill-feeling man has for his fellow man. You brought all of that to these peaceful isles where it found something in the air, perhaps, or the wind and rain, that gave it independence.

  He feeds on your animosity. In London, your largest settlement, at its largest to date, he has made his home. Here is misery, poverty and disease. Want and ignorance. Depravity and greed. Nourished by the evil that men do, he roams, he thrives. But the more he wallows in the cruelty of man, the more he wants. London will not be enough to contain him. He wants to spread his wings until they encompass the world.