Mariah Mundi

by G. P. Taylor

  ‘It’s real?’ he asked loudly, stepping from the window as Charity beckoned him to sit back at the table.

  ‘Real, friendly … and full of fish. An old girl, caught her myself.’ Charity picked a leftover tail of monkfish and threw it to the beast. ‘Getting too big to keep her here and yet whenever I take her for a walk, she always makes for where I found her.’

  ‘Africa?’ asked Mariah hesitantly.

  ‘The sands outside the Prince Regent,’ Charity replied. ‘Found her on the beach a week after that place opened, just a tiny thing no bigger than your hand. Kept her in the cellar ever since. Floods with the tide and she’s good for eating any … leftovers.’ He laughed the words to himself. ‘We were burgled once. Two villains got into the cellar by the old coal hatch. They say you could hear the screams on Castle Hill. Never did find much and for some reason the police didn’t want to investigate the scene of the crime … Not like any crocodile I’ve seen before,’ he went on. ‘She has the legs of a lizard and only one webbed foot. More of a dragon than a crocodillo.’

  Mariah didn’t reply as he looked from Charity to the sleeping Cuba and back again.

  ‘Have some Pricky Pudding,’ Charity said as he doled out two large scoops of thick sponge, encrusted with wild brambles and syrup, and covered in yellow custard. ‘Just the thing for an early breakfast.’

  Mariah looked to the large golden clock that hung above the door. Its hands clung to the face to herald the next hour of the night. A spinning second hand flew quickly between each mark, dragging the minute closer to the hour. With infinite precision it gave out a melancholy chime that jangled and jarred about the room. Cuba snapped at the air, sprung to life by the two bitter notes. She chewed an empty breath, a year’s worth of teeth snapping tightly shut as her large eyes gazed about her.

  ‘Hates sudden moves and loud noises … Never could train her to ignore them. Not best to be near her at midnight.’ Charity laughed as he took the spare spoon, dipped it into the centre of the pudding and filled his mouth to overflowing.

  ‘On the steps,’ Mariah asked quickly, ‘the creature – what was it?’

  ‘That, Mariah, we will never really know. A Kraken, a Croque-mitaine to frighten children … There are many things in this world that are beyond our understanding,’ he said as he chewed the pudding and wiped a dribble of thick custard from his chin. ‘One thing is certain – it wanted you.’

  ‘What of the money?’ Mariah asked as he felt the coin in his pocket.

  ‘Some say the Kraken comes from a sunken ship filled with Icelandic gold. A Viking treasure, stolen from the grave of a king. That he carries the money to give as a gift for the death he leaves behind.’ Charity got up from the table and pulled the thick red velvet curtain across the large pane of glass. ‘Some things are best said in private,’ he said softly as he paused and looked about the room.

  ‘There was a man killed by the Three Mariners, a cut across the head and three wounds in his neck, just like the Kraken’s knife.’ Mariah thrust out his hand into the air. ‘If you hadn’t been there it would have …’ He stopped and thought for a moment as for the first time he looked directly at Captain Charity. ‘Why were you there?’ he asked. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Questions, questions. I have a great many for you. Here you are, hardly more than a day in the town and already being rescued from murder. What of that man on the train, what became of him? Tell me, what of Otto Luger and Bizmillah, how do they treat you?’

  ‘You were following me, Captain,’ Mariah insisted as he placed the spoon and fork neatly side by side on his plate and folded the large white napkin.

  ‘When will you realise that it was a coincidence?’ Charity snapped.

  ‘You were following me.’

  ‘So, what if I was? And a good job to boot. That thing would have had you in pieces. If you stand under the window of the Golden Kipper talking to your lady friend, then a man like me will be intrigued.’ Charity smiled and held out his hand. ‘Came along in friendship, remembered you from the train and wanted to make sure you were all right. I warned you then and I’ll warn you now. There are events taking place that you will never understand and you are caught in the middle of them, Colonial boy in your five-pound suit and shiny shoes.’

  Charity put his hand on Mariah’s shoulder and stared him eye to eye. In that brief moment, Mariah could see every line of the man’s battle-worn face. He wondered what sights that piercing blue gaze had looked upon before, what wonders, marvels and misery they had beheld. There was no awkwardness in their looking, no embarrassment in the stare or unease in the glance. The boy looked to the man and in some hidden, half-thought way, saw his own future.

  ‘Were you really in the Sudan?’ Mariah asked.

  ‘In the rebellion, fought for two years.’

  ‘Did you ever …?’ Mariah asked, unable to finish his question.

  ‘Your parents?’ Charity replied, as if he knew the question before it was spoken. He went on quickly. ‘I thought of them when we met on the train. Never give up hope – search for truth until you find the answer.’

  ‘I would go there tomorrow,’ Mariah said as he gritted his teeth. ‘Search every inch of the land and look for them. If I could have just one bone or knuckle to say it was them, a fingernail to remove the doubt, then … I would have the answer.’ Mariah paused as he nervously twirled a long strand of hair around his finger. ‘Somehow, a scrap of paper telling me they were gone couldn’t end their lives. The Professor made me tell the school they were dead, had me repeat the word again and again as if it mattered. But they’re not dead, not in my mind, no matter what people say.’

  Charity listened, his eyes glistening with the flames from the lamp. They reminded him of a small village with a circle of burning huts that brightly glowed against the black Sudan sky. In his mind he stood there again, the hot flames taking away the chill of the desert night. Seven black scorpions scurried from the burning brush, waltzing back and forth as they darted about his feet, down a rocky slope and into the dry riverbed.

  ‘Sometimes things happen in war,’ he said dreamily, ‘things we never mean to do. Often so cruel that our minds find them hard to remember and our silence is looked upon as grim, heroic modesty, when all in all we hate ourselves for what we have done.’ Charity looked at the few remains that lay scattered about the plate. ‘Filled and ready for the night,’ he said, and a sudden change came to his voice as if the world gripped him again. ‘Time to have you back to the Prince Regent. Cuba needs a walk on the beach.’

  Charity stood and clicked his fingers to snap the dragon from its sleep. Cuba lifted herself to her feet, all but one of its long legs tipped with a clawed foot. She slinked quickly in and out of the tables and sat by the door, her tail twitching excitedly as she waited for her master. Mariah wiped the remains of the day from his face and followed at a distance as Captain Charity donned a heavy overcoat and from its pocket took a long leather strap that he slipped around the beast’s neck.

  ‘The locals get frightened if she’s not on the lead. Only reason they tolerate Cuba is that they believe she keeps the Kraken away. It was an old fisherman gave her the name, said it was that of an angel that kept guard over children as they slept, and she’s looked after this place whilst I’ve been away.’ Charity tugged the lead and the crocodile shuddered, rising on her back feet and scratting the door. ‘Must be a rat somewhere. Loves the chase and you never hear a single squeak when she crunches them in her mouth.’ He laughed, wrinkling the lines upon his face etched by many hours of warm smiles.

  From the door of the Golden Kipper Mariah could see the outline of the Prince Regent drawn against the fragmenting mist by the full moon. He stepped ahead of the crocodile and its keeper as the beast pulled against the leash and sniffed the salt air.

  ‘Still can smell a rat,’ Charity said as he locked the front door and pulled up the collar of his coat. ‘Mist bad again,’ he whispered. ‘Ever since they built the Regent, the sea’s
got warmer and the mists last longer.’

  They crossed the cobbled street, down the slipway and on to the sand. Cuba sprang back and forth like a young puppy, snapping at the air as she gulped breaths through her leathery nostrils. Charity quickly slipped the leash from her neck and watched her sprint across the sand and into the darkness. Mariah followed on close by as he looked for the creature.

  ‘Don’t worry lad,’ he said merrily. ‘Old Cuba will be chasing sea hawks. You’re far too big a mouthful for her tonight, even though you are stuffed with the best fish and potato.’

  Mariah reached into his pocket and pulled out the calling card he had been given by Charity on the train.

  ‘For my feast,’ he said as he tried to hand it to him.

  ‘Not needed,’ Charity replied quickly. ‘If I take the card I may never see you again. This way I know you’ll be back for a free meal – whenever you need one, of course.’ Charity held Mariah’s arm as they walked on. ‘Tell me one thing – Isambard Black, the man from the train, what became of him?’

  Mariah paused, not knowing if in speaking he would say something out of turn. He looked to the houses and shops that littered the foreshore. Far to his right were three new bathing machines with candy-striped hoods, half-doors and ladders that led to the sea. ‘Saw him a couple of times,’ Mariah said, not wanting to speak too openly. ‘Bizmillah keeps us busy. Him and Bizmillah keep company. Last night they were together in a room speaking and that.’

  ‘And what of the hotel? Do you get further than the place of your work?’ Charity asked quietly as he guided Mariah across the sands towards the Prince Regent.

  ‘Seen as much as I need. Sacha knows it better than anyone. Took me all round the place. From the highest towers into the dark depths. Can be hot as hell down there. Dark and steamy and smells of fish.’

  There was a cry of gulls far across the strand by the water’s edge. The steady beat of Cuba’s feet sounded across the soft sand, telling of her coming. Like an obedient dog she sat at Charity’s feet, her long reptilian tail curled about her, its tip giving away the tiniest hint of excitement. In her mouth she gently held a fat squawking herring-gull, its bright white feathers pressed against her dark skin. She blinked constantly, growling to herself as she moaned and wailed, several drops of tear-water slowly trickling from each eye.

  ‘Let it be, Cuba,’ Charity scolded the crocodile. ‘Not for you.’ The crocodile obediently opened her mouth and the frightened bird leapt from the jaws of death and took flight. Mariah clapped his hands at the spectacle and Cuba danced on her back legs, swirling the sand beneath her with her long tail as the seabird circled and called out overhead.

  ‘So warm for such a winter’s night,’ Mariah said innocently as he picked a piece of driftwood from the sand and threw it far away for the crocodillo to chase.

  ‘Touch the sand and feel the warmth underfoot,’ Charity said as he scooped a handful of steaming grains from the beach. ‘The sea is as hot as bath water and the sand no better.’ He tipped the sand into Mariah’s palm. ‘Do one thing for me, Mariah. Find me the reason for this and I think you will have the answer to all that you search for.’ As Charity spoke, the mountainous dark shadow of the Prince Regent towered above them.

  [ 15 ]

  Reductio ad Absurdum

  MARIAH had always thought that the longer he slept, the longer he would live. So much so that he had even contemplated the idea that if he were to sleep ad infinitum then he would be able to live forever. It was a notion that had often kept him going when the world with all its problems had grown too much. He would keep a diary listing the hours he slept and the hours waking, always hoping to have an excess balance, an abundance of time when his eyelids were firmly shut and he was oblivious to the outside world. Since the apparent death of his parents, Mariah had tried to sleep even more. In the Chiswick Colonial School he would find a place far away from the others, often by the refectory fire, to close his eyes to the world. Lunchtime and the long free hour following tea and before vespers were his favourite times to sneak away and try to sleep. More often than not he would close his eyes and just listen to the world, thinking those inner thoughts and living an interior life known only to him. Mariah imagined that by thinking hard enough he could change the course of life. In his dreams he would see his mother, talk to her, know her again. They would fill each second with unending chatter like two turtle-doves, always in the same place. They would be on a bridge by a river, staring at each other’s reflection in the changing waters. There was no sun, just a radiant light that edged its way around the high grey clouds that blanketed the sky.

  In every dream he had never looked at her face to face. It was only her shimmering reflection that he had seen, often broken by the wisps of breeze that blew through the tall oaks and cedars that surrounded them. He would then slip deeper away from his dream, knowing that soon he would wake, but holding fast to the hope that he would see her again.

  Waking was always the same. The bitterness of rousing would snatch the glory of her life and allow the memory of shouting out that she was dead to come to his mind. Sleep was, for Mariah a great comforter. Kindling to life cheated him of all that he held dear.

  As he left Charity on the beach and climbed the long steps that ran the height of the cliff by the Prince Regent he thought of sleep. He knew that somewhere ahead there would be a door, and that far behind Charity and Cuba would wait until he was out of sight and safe within the red brick walls of the hotel. Mariah gripped the cold iron railing as he dragged himself foot over foot, higher and higher, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. A quartet of tall black gas lamps lighted the treads of the steep stone staircase. Their amber light flickered in the thinning swirls of mist that followed his every step. Set in the thick brick wall was a dark wooden door, clearly marked in bright white paint with the word Deliveries.

  Mariah turned to the sea and looked far below. There was Charity, waiting and watching from the shore as Cuba scratched in the sand and swished her tail back and forth, relentlessly chewing the driftwood that he had thrown for her. With one hand he pulled on the brass door handle as he waved to his watcher. The door pulled open easily, squeaking on one hinge and dragging itself across the chipped brickwork of the threshold.

  He looked back momentarily, a noise from the top of the steps catching his ear. There, by the tiny parade of shops, the Italian café and gentlemen’s hairdresser, was the lamplighter. He looked to Mariah and nodded as he hooked the gas handle under the wick and turned off the hissing supply.

  ‘Two-thirty,’ he moaned with a gargling voice of chewed tobacco, feeling he had to explain his presence to Mariah. ‘Light ’em up then snuff ’em out, bit like life really. All off at two-thirty … Night shift?’ he asked Mariah as he fumbled in the pocket of his tattered wax coat for another wad of black masticate. ‘Never see daylight, dusk to dawn, dusk to dawn,’ he moaned mournfully through his long bushy beard, not caring if he got a reply but thankful he had seen another living soul.

  Mariah smiled to him as he stepped inside the doorway of the Prince Regent, pulling the wooden door firmly shut, waiting as the steps of the lamplighter clattered down each stone tread. He listened as the man made his way to each lamp, leaving darkness behind as he snuffed out the quartet one by one.

  Inside the Prince Regent he was greeted by the sound of the steam elevator and the smell of sulphur and goose grease. It was as if the walls of the delivery room had been coated with a thin covering of brown slime, painted upon the whitewashed walls. By the side of the door were several crates of stacked bananas, their long yellow fingers reaching out to him through the timber bands that made up every box. Each one was sealed with a brass wire that ran through the wooden spars, linking the lid firmly to the side so it could not be opened. All was as it should be for that early hour. The baker would arrive in a while to knead the dough that had been left in the small china pots to grow overnight. The breakfast chef would steal his way in, still drunk from the ni
ght before, and slowly and surely the gigantic whale would come to life. Five hundred slick waiters and two hundred housekeepers would soon rush to fulfil every desire of every patron, and Mariah would set and clean every magical trick for that night’s performance.

  From the delivery room he made his way quickly via the back stairs to the theatre. As he strode the passageways and dark corridors, he mused on the idea of doing his work before he went to sleep, hoping to please Sacha by having everything done. This would also give him time to understand what he had seen in the night. The thoughts of the Kraken crossed his mind again and again. It was an image of which he could not rid his wits. No matter how he tried to force his mind to think of other things, the wheedling thought came back, the image of the creature stronger and more recognisable.

  As he turned into the last corridor and up the final flight of steps to the stage door, Mariah heard the clear crisp sound of scraping feet coming from far behind. He shuddered, stepping into a black shadow out of the glare of the lamp, and looked back. All was still. He dismissed the sound as a gesture of his imagination, coughing to clear his throat, half out of fear and half worrying that he might have to run at any moment. The echo went on and on. He gripped his hand into the shape of a fist, digging the nails into his palm as he clutched the gold coin tightly, never wanting to let go. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked, hoping there would be no reply.

  Mariah waited and waited for whoever was in the darkness. No one came, no sound, no scraping, just the gentle hum of the steam generator far below, rumbling on as it always did in its melancholy way.

  In two steps he was through the door and into the theatre. He stood in the pitch black, knowing that to his right would be a small table with a brass candle-holder and stout candle, and by the side would be the Lucifer and striking plate. Mariah fumbled blindly, rubbing his hand across the table as he felt for the holder. Outside, the scraping footstep came again. He pushed his back against the door and felt for the bolt; taking it in his fingers he slid it home, then crouched in the blackness and listened. Again, all fell silent.