Rod Rees - [The Demi-Monde 02]

by Spring (v5. 0) (epub)

  ‘Oh, thank you. I am delighted to be called a cynic, because cynicism denotes a frame of mind whereby all the morality and precepts governing life are held in derision. And that is what I have striven all my life to do. But enough of this chit-chat. I will now leave you to contemplate the pain and the torture to come.’ He reached over to take Ella’s glass, and as he did so their hands met. That single touch was enough to allow PINC to tell her who this man was.

  ‘You’re the Marquis de Sade,’ she gasped.

  Donatien bowed. ‘A somewhat obsolete title now since I am persona non grata in Venice, but I suppose the answer is yes, I am indeed Donatien-Alphonse-François, the Marquis de Sade.’

  7

  The ForthRight Ministry

  of Propaganda: The Rookeries

  The Demi-Monde: 4th Day of Spring, 1005

  Ah, Spring comes to the Quartier Chaud, when the sap rises, loins are girded and an ImPuritan’s thoughts turn to what they should be wearing to this Season’s Fleshtivals. And my advice? For men: stripes, stripes, and more stripes! Trousers should be skintight and striped, with a contrasting codpiece in gloss shellac (red or yellow for preference). Hats should be at least three inches taller than was currently en vogue, and decorated with polka dots. For the ladies, it is the nipple that takes centre stage this Spring. Breasts should be covered – or is that uncovered, ladies? – by voile, and the nipples varnished a colour that complements the gown. And as for masks: white leather leavened with a haze of sequins remains de rigueur for both the man and the woman about town.

  ‘ImPure Modes’: Frederick Worth,

  UnVague Vogues Monthly, Spring 1005

  Comrade Vice-Leader Lavrentii Beria felt that fortune was smiling on him. He had learned from his agent in Paris that the Lady IMmanual was now incarcerated very securely in the Bastille, so he had dispatched his foremost expert in the use of galvanicEnergy – together with one of his precious Faraday Thermopiles – to that benighted city to tease out all her secrets before she was sent off to be topped by Madame Guillotine. If the Doctor couldn’t find out how she had opened the Boundary Layer, then Beria was damned if anyone else would be able to.

  The army’s occupation of the Medi was going smoothly, too, so much so that Beria had bowed to the pressure imposed on him by the Great Leader and had taken the unprecedented decision to travel to Paris himself, so he could supervise its subjugation personally. And while he was there, he could ensure that the one remaining loose end in this whole sorry Lady IMmanual saga could be tied up, the loose end called Burlesque Bandstand.

  The man’s treachery had to be punished. Treachery was like cancer: if it wasn’t destroyed quickly, it had the nasty habit of infecting everything – and everybody – around it. The destruction of Burlesque Bandstand was therefore a matter of some urgency, and hence deserved the use of his best man – or rather his worst man – to secure his demise. Beria would, of course, have preferred to inflict Bandstand’s punishment personally, but such was the pressure of work that he had had to forgo this pleasure. He just hoped that Zolotov’s description of how he killed the fat fool would be moderately diverting.

  Beria leant over and pulled a bell cord that hung from the ceiling and a moment later a liveried servant scurried into the room. ‘Comrade Zolotov should attend me immediately.’ As the flunky scuttled off, he took a moment to pour himself a glass of Solution. He would need a drink; meetings with Zolotov were always trying occasions. The man was an effective assassin and an utterly charming bastard, but he was inclined to be disrespectful, never quite having thrown off his Royalist inclinations. Once a count always a count seemed to be Zolotov’s motto.

  *

  There was a knock on the door of Beria’s drawing room, and a lithe, elegant man was announced. A lithe, elegant and very arrogant man: unlike all other supplicants, Andrei Zolotov failed to bow and to avert his eyes when first ushered into the presence of the Vice-Leader. He didn’t even bother to remove the cigarette that hung so casually from his lips, though he did have the good grace to doff his top hat.

  Louche and careless, he stood with one hand tucked stylishly in his jacket pocket and an amused smile on his face. For a man being driven from St Petersburg, penniless and bereft of blat, friends and influence, Zolotov seemed irritatingly sanguine. Rascal though he was, Zolotov was a charming rascal. Beria was certain his agents would need to have both guile and amiability to be able to find and assassinate Burlesque Bandstand in an ImPure Quartier Chaud. And Zolotov had guile and amiability in abundance; he was after all, the man who had inveigled himself between the legs of Lady Irma Dolgorukova, and, knowing the frosty reputation of that frigid bitch, this was an amazing accomplishment. Of course, Comrade Commissar Dolgoukov had been less enamoured of Zolotov’s dalliances with his wife and had threatened to reciprocate the favour by getting between Zolotov’s legs and castrating him. Which was why Zolotov was now persona non grata in St Petersburg and would be amenable to a holiday outside the ForthRight.

  ‘Good evening, Comrade Zolotov. My thanks for attending me so promptly.’

  Carelessly Zolotov hitched a buttock up onto the side of a table, draping his rangy body back over the polished walnut. ‘I am beholden to you for my room and board, Comrade Vice-Leader, and such largesse deserves to be rewarded with a certain appreciative alacrity.’

  Beria studied the young man for a moment. He really was the most impudent of rascals but, contrarily, there was something likeable about him. He was not yet twenty-one, though his long blond hair and thin moustache made him look even younger than his years. There was an air of innocence about him that was almost endearing, but it was a somewhat specious innocence, Zolotov having long since corrupted himself by a surfeit of whoring, duelling, gambling, drinking and other, even more malevolent, mischievousness. It was a mischievousness well known in society circles, and Zolotov’s reputation went before him, matrons in St Petersburg doing their best to ensure that their daughters were kept out of his clutches, though many of them had been less careful regarding their own involvement with the very beddable Zolotov.

  ‘Speaking of largesse, Comrade Zolotov, it would seem that you have been utilising the services of my tailor.’

  An infuriating little shrug of the boy’s strong shoulders. ‘When one is of royal blood … oops, forgive me, Comrade Vice-Leader, I did, of course, mean to say Aryan blood, it behoves one to maintain appearances.’ He brushed a piece of delinquent fluff from the trousers of his immaculately cut suit. ‘I have to concede that your tailor is a master, Comrade, though I am forced to criticise your choice of bootmaker.’ Here he lifted a foot so that Beria might better admire the shiny leather items he was wearing. ‘These new boots of mine pinch like the very devil.’

  ‘I am delighted that you find my tailor is of an adequate standard, though I am less enamoured with your habit of charging your purchases to my account.’

  If Zolotov was at all disturbed by the rebuke, he certainly didn’t show it. Instead he offered a small smile by way of apology. ‘When one is as impoverished as I am, Comrade Vice-Leader, one has to swallow one’s pride and take assistance and charity where one finds it. You have been very generous.’

  ‘So at least you have the good grace to acknowledge the extent of my generosity, Zolotov. This is gratifying, as I have in mind a service that will extinguish the debts you owe me.’

  Andrei Zolotov stopped swinging his leg and for the first time gave Beria his undivided attention. ‘I really do hope, Comrade Vice-Leader, that you are not assuming the hectoring tone so beloved by my father, and suggesting that I join the military or, even worse, take up a diplomatic post in some ABBA-forsaken Sector whose language I would be unable to pronounce unless I had a mouthful of phlegm. If you are, I would counsel you that I have an aversion to authority.’ Zolotov pronounced the word ‘authority’ as though the very thought of it made him nauseous.

  ‘And also to hard work, according to your father. No, Zolotov, the task I have in mind is much more a
ttuned to your natural talents of treachery, chicanery, seduction and murder.’

  ‘This being the case, Comrade Vice-Leader, I am all ears.’

  ‘You have heard, no doubt, of the Lady IMmanual.’

  ‘Wasn’t she the witch who performed that Miracle of the Boundary? I seem to remember hearing something about her.’

  Beria took a long, deep breath. The youth of today never failed to amaze him by its lack of interest in the world about them. ‘Yes, that’s the girl. By the use of WhoDoo magic she managed to open the Boundary Layer, thereby allowing three million nuJus to leave Warsaw and escape into the Great Beyond. She is the same girl who performed, in her guise of the mambo Laveau, at Dashwood Manor. You were in attendance of the Great Leader that evening. Do you remember her now? She is a Shade.’

  Zolotov shook his head. ‘No, I was otherwise engaged when the séance took place.’

  Otherwise engaged with one of the Dashwoods’ serving girls, no doubt, decided Beria.

  ‘But that is not to say I haven’t met her. Several of my meetings with ladies have been very brief, and the conversation enjoyed inclined to a certain breathless aspect. And as these meetings invariably take place in the dark, her skin colour would have been lost on me.’ He gave Beria an anxious glance. ‘She wouldn’t happen to be pregnant, would she?’

  Beria laughed. ‘No, she is not pregnant. But what she most certainly is, is very dangerous. So dangerous that she has been designated by the Great Leader as a major threat to the ForthRight. Following the events in Warsaw, she escaped to the Quartier Chaud where she is now in custody – her escape being facilitated by a rogue named Burlesque Bandstand.’ Beria waved a piece of paper in Zolotov’s direction. ‘I have here a death warrant authorising Bandstand’s assassination – an assassination I wish you to perform.’

  ‘What type of man is this Bandstand of yours, Comrade Vice-Leader?’

  ‘Bandstand runs a pub in the Rookeries.’

  A laugh from Zolotov. ‘A pub operator, you say. Dangerous chaps these landlords, eh? Death by short measure, perhaps?’ Zolotov took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘Not that I’m overly surprised: it’s impossible to trust anyone these days … even bootmakers.’

  Beria was genuinely shocked by Zolotov’s whimsy, and he began to wonder if the man had sufficient gravitas to undertake a mission of the importance he was proposing. ‘Reports have it that this villain Burlesque Bandstand is now in Paris, where he plots the destruction of the ForthRight.’

  An exaggeration, of course, but necessary if Beria were to avoid the rumour spreading that he’d been foxed by a nobody like Bandstand.

  Although Beria imbued the words with as much portent as he was able, Zolotov was unmoved. Instead, he just sat on the edge of the table, puffing his cigarette and swinging a leg in an indolent, carefree manner.

  ‘I would have thought my services were a little too … expensive to be employed in disposing of a nonentity like this Bandstand chappy of yours.’

  Beria skewered the young man with a vicious look. ‘You cannot refuse, Zolotov. This is a deadly service that I ask you to undertake for your Fatherland.’ There was no response, so Beria was obliged to prompt one. ‘You do think yourself capable of killing the man, don’t you?’

  Zolotov chuckled. ‘The question, Comrade Vice-Leader, is not if I am capable of killing the man, but whether I am willing to kill the man.’

  ‘Surely a loyal man of royal blood … of Aryan blood,’ Beria quickly corrected himself, ‘would have no hesitation in performing any service that will help preserve the sanctity of the ForthRight?’

  ‘The problem here is that the adjective “loyal” is, in my case, substituted by the word “indigent”.’

  ‘But I have supported you in a manner appropriate to your rank. I have permitted you to dress yourself—’

  ‘My dear Comrade Vice-Leader,’ interrupted Zolotov with a negligent wave of his hand, ‘if you imagine that I am inclined to murder in exchange for a couple of suits and a pair of ill-fitting boots, then we have a fundamental difference in understanding when it comes to evaluating the worth of my services.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want Commissar-Comrade Dolgorukov called off. He has threatened to have his bully boys chop off my cock, and as I am inordinately fond of that particular piece of artillery, I want him deterred. I want to be reinstated in St Petersburg society. The Rookeries are all very fine in their way, but the women here are rotten with syphilis. And finally, I want all my debts extinguished; my nuJu moneylenders in Venice are becoming very insistent.’

  ‘I am aghast at your bourgeois attitude.’

  ‘Bourgeois or not, are my terms agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘That being the case, I am your man.’

  Beria tossed a leather-bound file to Zolotov. ‘This contains all the information you might require regarding Burlesque Bandstand.’

  Zolotov made a quick, lazy flick through the pages of the file. ‘It’s terribly thick.’

  ‘I note your aversion to study, Zolotov, but I suggest you peruse it diligently. Make no mistake, Burlesque Bandstand will be a doughty opponent.’

  ‘Do you have a picture of the man?’

  ‘Unfortunately not, Zolotov, but I have this …’

  He signalled to a flunky and moments later a very strange-looking individual was ushered into the room. Enormously fat and decked out in an amazingly tatty suit, the fellow looked for all the world like a very large rubbish heap with legs. ‘This man is a former associate of Burlesque Bandstand.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Zolotov, as he raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I would ask if it has a name, but I fancy this … thing has yet to evolve the power of speech.’

  ‘Come on man,’ prompted Beria, ‘tell us your name.’

  ‘My name is Maurice Merriment, Comrade, Your Majesty, Vice-Leader, sir. I am an entertainer.’

  ‘Really?’ mused Zolotov. ‘And what do you entertain, apart from the lice which no doubt call your verminous person home?’

  ‘I am a comic, sir.’

  ‘I am amazed by what the lower orders find amusing.’

  Beria decided to interrupt this rather irritating exchange. ‘But you know and can identify Burlesque Bandstand?’

  ‘Oh yes, sirs, I’d know that thieving bastard anywheres.’

  ‘Excellent. Then I suggest, Zolotov, that you take this creature with you to the Quartier Chaud and use him to help you track down Bandstand.’

  Zolotov seemed less than impressed. ‘Generally I prefer as my accomplices those who are at least partially simian in origin, and who don’t smell in quite such a pungent manner.’ He shook his head. ‘Indeed, such is the pong emanating from this wretch’s breeches that I am unsure, Comrade Vice-Leader, whether he has risen from the primordial ooze, or is still living in it.’

  ‘Oh, that’s the dogshit,’ said Maurice Merriment helpfully. ‘I am resting between engagements at the moment and ‘ave found gainful employment in a tannery.’

  ‘Well, there goes my chance of surprising this Bandstand person,’ said Zolotov, as he dug a scented handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his nose. ‘If he doesn’t spot us first, he’ll be sure to smell us. I’ll have to attack him from downwind.’

  8

  Paris

  The Demi-Monde: 13th Day of Spring, 1005

  The conclusion is inescapable: all Demi-Mondians possess the potential to be Dark Charismatics, although in the vast majority of mankind this potential is unrealised. The internal conflict resulting between H. singularis and H. sapiens produces, in more extreme cases, the condition known as schizophrenia. Fortunately, for the sanguinity of the Demi-Mondian race, the malicious traits ascribable to H. singularis are latent – its true, horrific nature only being stimulated into blossom by accidental excitements.

  Letter dated 53rd day of Spring, 1002, from

  Professeur Michel de Nostredame to Doge Catherine-Sophia

  Ella was frightened
. She had been through a lot in the Demi-Monde, but the ten days she’d spent as a prisoner in the Bastille was the worst experience of them all. The Bastille was a horrible place – dark, dank and oppressive – and its inhabitants were similarly vile. The waiting for something to happen had been nerve-shredding. But now it seemed her waiting was at an end.

  The mysterious ‘Doctor’ – the ForthRight’s expert on galvanic-Energy, as PINC told her electricity was known in the Demi-Monde – had finally arrived in Paris, and Ella was being marched through the prison’s foetid corridors to meet the man.

  Despite the attendance of de Sade and a Sergeant-Inquisitor, Ella had never felt more alone. Being separated from Vanka hadn’t done anything for her peace of mind: she’d come to rely on his indefatigable optimism to carry her through the scrapes they’d been involved in together, and without him at her side things now seemed decidedly bleak.

  Very bleak.

  She was now in the power of the Marquis de Sade, one of the Real World’s most famous sexual delinquents, the man who had given his name to the practice of sadism. And, from what Ella had gleaned during the several tête-à-têtes she’d had with him, the man was most certainly off his rocker. The way he described it, he just loved torturing people.

  She felt de Sade edge closer to her. ‘The device we will be using to test you, my Lady, is perhaps one of the most remarkable of all engines, in that it is driven by galvanicEnergy, a phenomenon newly discovered by Comrade Scientist Faraday. Unfortunately, this engine is so temperamental that it must be operated by an expert on secondment to the CIA from the ForthRight. I warn you now that this expert is an uncompromising individual, so I offer you this advice: speak the truth and speak it quickly. In this way you will avoid at least some degree of unnecessary pain. Unlike mine, his passion for cruelty is promoted by an inclination towards the bestial, and he possesses none of my finer feelings or sensitivities.’

  Fucking hell. If the Marquis de Sade was warning her that the man she was about to meet was beyond the pale, then he really must be a thoroughgoing badnik.