Rod Rees - [The Demi-Monde 02]

by Spring (v5. 0) (epub)

  ‘’Ello, Rivets, ’ow you ’anging?’

  Rivets looked up and studied the very big and very florid-faced man who was addressing him. It took a moment for Rivets to identify him as Burlesque Bandstand, the red leather half-mask and the new beard combining to provide a very effective disguise.

  ‘Stone me, Burlesque, you gave me a start. I thought you’d scarpered back to the Smoke, or sumfink.’

  Burlesque raised a finger to his lips. ‘Keep yer voice darn. Remember we’re ’ere on the QT.’ With that, Burlesque pulled up a chair and sat down as close to Rivets as decency permitted.

  To Rivets’s astonishment, Burlesque smelt almost fresh. The aroma of smoke, soot and shit that perfumed everyone in London was gone and, worse, Burlesque’s new-found cleanliness was augmented by a floral fragrance.

  ‘Gor, Burlesque, you look Sunday-fied an’ then some. An’ you pong a bit flowery, as well. You ain’t gone light on your loafers, ’ave you, Burlesque? You ain’t turned zadnik, ’ave you?’

  Burlesque blushed. ‘Nah, I ’ad a wash.’

  ‘A wash?’ gasped Rivets. ‘Blimey, Burlesque, that ain’t natural. You wanna be careful lessen you wash away all your skin’s goodness. Yer ’air might drop art, or sumfink.’

  Burlesque nodded in disconsolate agreement. ‘That’s wot I fink, but there ain’t no tellin’ these Frogs. They’re always washin’ themselves. Got so I ’ad to ’ave a bath and buy some fresh linen, ovverwise they’d ’ave spotted me for an Anglo, sure as eggs is eggs.’

  With a shake of his head, Rivets communicated his sympathy with Burlesque’s plight. ‘Any’ow, you look well, Burlesque, and I like the Charlie.’ He gestured towards Burlesque’s incipient goatee. ‘Makes you look distinguished. Is it meant to be a disguise from the Peelers?’

  Burlesque nodded, as he fingered the first sproutings of a beard that decorated his chin and upper lip. ‘Yeah, I reckon by now Beria’ll ’ave ’is cryptos out an’ about in the Quartier, looking for me. I did ’im a bad turn, and Beria ain’t the sort ov rotten bastard to let a bad turn go unpunished.’

  ‘You fancy a swill?’ asked Rivets, waving to the barmaid to order two more glasses of Solution even before Burlesque could reply. He poked a finger towards the meat pie he’d been chewing on. ‘I’d offer you a chonkey, but they’re a bit iffy. Full o’ mystery meat, though I’ve an inkling it went “meow” when it was in the land ov the living.’

  Once the drinks were served, Rivets was prompted to ask the question that had been worrying him ever since he’d arrived in Paris. ‘So wot’s to do, Burlesque? We can’t hang around ’ere in Frogland for the rest of our naturals. You ’eard anyfink about Vanka? ’E owes me a wonderment ov money ’e does.’

  ‘Word is that Miss Ella, that snotty cow Norma Williams and Wanker ’ave bin banged up in the Bastille.’

  ‘Then they’re fucked, Burlesque. Bollocks, bang goes me inheritance.’

  Burlesque gave a nod of understanding. ‘Yeah, there ain’t nuffink we can do for them now, so I wos thinking ov taking Miss Ella’s advice an’ headin’ for Venice. I might start up a bar or sumfink there. I lost everyfink when Beria arrested me, but I ain’t on me uppers. I’ve got a nest egg tucked away in Venice from a job I did for Wanker that’ll set me up a treat.’ He took a long sip of his Solution and winced. ‘Fucking hell, this Frog Solution’s crook. It tastes like rat’s piss.’

  ‘Yeah, they don’t make it wiv vodka like proper Solution. They make it wiv stuff called absinthe.’

  ‘Absence? Good name for it, iffn you ask me, given there’s fuck all alcohol in it.’

  The pair of them were quiet for a moment as they contemplated the horrors of Frog Solution. It was Rivets who broke the silence. ‘You mind iffn I come along wiv you to Venice, Burlesque? I don’t fancy staying ’ere livin’ wiv the snail-eaters, an’ it’s a bit lonely all on me ownsome.’

  There was no reply, and when Rivets looked up he saw that all of Burlesque’s attention was focused on four large girls in funny hats and very revealing frocks who had just entered the bar.

  ‘Gor,’ said Burlesque quietly, in an awestruck tone of voice, ‘will you look at the charms on that one.’

  ‘Crikey,’ added an astonished Rivets, as he studied the girls, ‘they’ve ’ardly got any clobber on at all.’

  ‘I’ll say this for these French birds,’ said Burlesque, his gaze never leaving the very big girl with the long brown hair, who was parading around with one of her breasts bared, ‘they really know ’ow to dress. You’d never get wun of them Rookerie tarts wiv ’alf as much dunno-say-qua as they ’ave.’

  ‘Dunno say what?’ queried Rivets.

  ‘It’s Frog for “fuckability”,’ explained Burlesque. ‘You know I might even be inclined to chance me arm wiv that tall wun – the wun wiv the really big jugs. I’ve always ’ad a weakness for birds I ’ad to look up to.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ protested Rivets. ‘You’re married.’

  ‘Nah, I ain’t. Cow divorced me, didn’t she, after I got banged up by the Checkya. Seems iffn you’re classified as an Enemy ov the ForthRight, it’s grounds for instant divorce. I fink the cow only did it to get ’er ’ands on the Prancing Pig before Beria’s bailiffs moved in.’

  Explanation given, and with a wink to Rivets, Burlesque rose to his feet, hitched up his codpiece, sucked in his gut and turned towards the girl who had taken his eye. He wasn’t quick enough off the mark. Before he had even started across the floor of the bar, an ugly-looking Frenchman had already sauntered over to the girls’ table.

  The girls’ drinks had only just been served when a man – old, pox-marked, unkempt and with an UnFunDaMentalist badge stuck in the lapel of his soiled jacket – materialised alongside Odette. ‘Your kind ain’t welcome here,’ he said in a voice he must have thought was menacing, but which in reality was almost as unsteady as his stance. The man had obviously shipped a lot of Solution.

  Odette eyed him unconcernedly, and the truth was she wasn’t concerned. She was bigger than this man was, stronger than he was, and a lot more sober than he was. What was more, he probably didn’t have his hand curled around a half-kilo steel knuckleduster like the one she had hidden in the pocket of her cloak.

  ‘Why’s that, CitiZen?’ Odette asked equitably.

  ‘’Cos yous all ImPuritan whores, that’s why,’ slurred the man. ‘’Cos it ain’t natural for women to flaunt themselves in public, and display their bits for men who ain’t their husbands.’

  ‘Bollocks, CitiZen,’ Odette said with a smile. ‘The Charter of Responsibilities says that CitiZens of the Quartier Chaud are permitted to seek JuiceSense by engaging in sexual pleasure – of whatever description – free from abuse, violence or coercion. It also says, CitiZen,’ and here Odette’s voice took on a harder edge, ‘that it is the responsibility of all CitiZens to refrain from censuring, curtailing, impeding or compromising another’s sexual pleasure, except when such sexual pleasure mitigates their own. And I think that’s what you’re doing, CitiZen, censuring me.’ She smiled again. ‘So why don’t you just fuck off while you’re still capable of fucking off?’

  That comment persuaded the man to shuffle on his feet, as he tried to make himself look bigger and more dangerous. Odette thought it made him look ridiculous, but her grip on the knuckleduster tightened, anyway.

  ‘You can’t talk to me like that. I’m a bloke and women ’ave got to heed blokes. That’s wot UnFunDaMentalism says.’

  ‘I’m not an UnFunDaMentalist, I’m an ImPuritan.’

  ‘ImPuritanism’s crap, that’s wot it is.’

  Despite her feeling that this conversation would inevitably end in fisticuffs, Odette did her best to carry on in the same careless manner. It was mildly amusing, and anyway she had nothing better to do with her time. ‘You’re wrong, CitiZen. ImPuritanism’s the best thing that ever happened to the Quartier Chaud. For five hundred years ImPuritanism has kept MALEvolence in check, and has brought peace, happiness and wealth to the
Quartier Chaud. And why did this happen? Because the Quartier Chaud has been run by women, that’s why, and women’s inclination to violence is considerably weaker than men’s. Women are more peaceable than men, CitiZen. Now fuck off before I thump you.’

  ‘It’s not right. Women should do what men tell ’em. And mark my words, when Robespierre brings UnFunDaMentalism to the Quartier, scrubbers like you are in for a real shock.’ He made a grab for Odette’s exposed breast, but she knocked his hand away. ‘Then you women are gonna know what your proper place is. Feeding, breeding, and menfolk-heeding.’

  Odette sensed that the man was fast running out of control, and that it would be necessary to deck him. But just as she was hauling herself up onto her feet, she became aware that another man had come to stand by her table.

  ‘Est-ce que cet homme est un pain-dans-le-arse, Mademoiselle? Desirez-vous que je put un sur son?’

  If the interloper had been a Quartier Chaudian, Odette would have berated him for being a patronising, chauvinistic bastard and told him to fuck off. But he wasn’t. As best Odette could tell from his garbled French, the newcomer was an Anglo. Not, admittedly, a very prepossessing Anglo: he was quite fat, had horrible teeth, and his bruised and battered face made him look like he’d been in a recent altercation with a steamer. But unusually for an Anglo, he smelt almost clean. He was also – and this Odette would never share with her friends on the grounds that they would quite rightly take the piss out of her – being gallant. And gallantry was an old-fashioned, even an obsolete concept.

  The protocol associated with gender equality in the Quartier Chaud meant that it was considered impolite for a man to come to the aid of a woman. But despite Odette’s espousal of ImPuritanism and its teachings, she had to admit that it was quite refreshing to meet a man who still seemed beholden to the concepts of knightly love so wonderfully described in the penny-dreadful romances she was addicted to. In this regard the fat Anglo was a real throwback. In fact, judging by the slope of his forehead, Odette suspected that he must have been thrown back to the dawn of time. She made a quick check to see that his knuckles were actually clear of the floor.

  Yes, much as she hated to admit it, such a show of chivalry made her feel almost girly. She had never been treated as a damsel in distress before, and she was enjoying it. Ignoring the giggles coming from her friends, she smiled sweetly at the chivalrous Anglo and decided to let love take its course.

  What had prompted him to go to the girl’s rescue, Burlesque wasn’t sure. He had never been much of a romantic – actually, he had never been a romantic at all – so he couldn’t for the life of him decide what had inspired him to play the knight errant and walk over to the girl’s table to enquire if she needed his assistance.

  Whether she did or did not have need of his assistance swiftly became academic, as the Frog who had been berating her now turned his ire upon Burlesque.

  ‘Va te faire foutre, sale Anglo de merde,’ (‘Fuck off, you piece of Anglo dogshit’) the man snarled at Burlesque, and though the latter didn’t fully understand all the man had said, he understood enough to know that he wasn’t being particularly friendly. He didn’t like the shove on the shoulder the Frog had given him, either.

  Fuck offez vous aussi, Mon-sewer le Frog. Par-ce que, iffn vous doesn’t, je will smackez vous sur votre tête très fort. Capiche?’

  The man’s brow furrowed as he disentangled Burlesque’s strange patois. Once he had, he drew a large and very businesslike knife from the back of his belt and brandished it in Burlesque’s direction. Immediately there was a scraping of chairs as the bar’s patrons politely moved back to afford the combatants more room.

  Burlesque sighed. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in a fight, because fights attracted attention. But with this Frog tart looking on, Burlesque was buggered if he’d back down. He’d come over here to defend her honour – though, looking at how she was dressed, he didn’t suppose there was much honour left to defend – and defend it he would.

  Although he had his Webley holstered beneath his coat, Burlesque decided that he’d use something a little more subtle and a little quieter to subdue this truculent Frog. Something that wouldn’t bring the Coppers running. And he had the very thing hidden up his sleeve: a length of rubber tubing filled with a pound of lead shot and fashioned into a blackjack. As he shook his arm, the blackjack slid into his hand, and he used said blackjack to planish the Frog’s head. The Frog, quite understandably, sank to the floor with nary a peep of complaint.

  To Burlesque’s delight, the girl proceeded to boot the man in the nuts. Here was a woman after his own heart!

  Odette was impressed. This funny Anglo had dispensed with the drunk very, very efficiently. He must, she decided, have had a lot of experience in running bars, where, as she understood it, the philosophy for maintaining an orderly house was to hit miscreants just once, but to hit them first and to hit them so hard that they ceased being a problem.

  Certainly the Anglo was physically … well, odd. Odette toyed with the word ‘repellent’ for a moment, before deciding that that was a little too harsh. But he obviously liked her and, as her success with men of late had been dismal, she decided that she would be accommodating. She gave the man an encouraging smile and a jiggle of her bare breast.

  ‘Je suis Burlesque Bandstand,’ said the man after being suitably encouraged. He then made a rather flamboyant bow.

  ‘Vous êtes très galant, Monsieur. Je suis Mademoiselle Odette Aroca.’ (‘You are very chivalrous, Monsieur. I am Mademoiselle Odette Aroca.’) She held out her hand, and allowed the Anglo to plant an excessively damp kiss on it. ‘Et, Monsieur, des sentiments si délicats et une inclination si noble méritent une récompense.’ (‘And, Monsieur, such delicacy of feeling and noble inclination deserves a reward.’) Odette had to boot Sabine under the table to stop the silly girl’s tittering. This done, she delved into her pocket, extracted a piece of paper, wrote down her address and then handed it to the Anglo. ‘Je serais ravie de vous recevoir à toute heure.’ (‘I would be pleased to have you call on me at any time.’) Then she stood up and enveloped the Anglo in a huge hug, and such was the disparity in their heights that the man’s face found its way quite wonderfully between her breasts. Amazingly, the silly Anglo blushed.

  Burlesque watched entranced as the vision that was Odette Aroca left the bar, this magnificent piece of Frog womanhood blowing him a kiss as she went. His body clock went pit-a-pat, and for the first time in his sordid life he understood what it was like to be in love. He was so smitten that when, an hour later, he and Rivets rose, a little worse for Solution, to leave the bar to journey to Rivets’s lodgings, his instinct for self-preservation – usually so acute – almost failed him. But even pissed, even with his mind befuddled by thoughts of the marvellous Odette, Burlesque was still sharp enough to spot an old chum of his, Maurice Merriment, sitting in a shadowed corner of the bar.

  And as he stepped out into the night air, Burlesque suddenly found himself stone-cold sober. The prospect of being knifed in the back always had that effect on him.

  13

  The Convent of the Sacred and

  All-Seeing Order of Visual Virgins: Paris

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

  Auralism is the ability to perceive and to ‘read’ the multicoloured halo that surrounds a Demi-Mondian’s body. It is believed that auras are associated with radiations emanating from the soul which suffuses a Demi-Mondian’s Solidified Astral Ether. Careful examination has confirmed that each aura is distinct and unique, and in the Quartier Chaud, where the wearing of masks is de rigueur, aural analysis is the only certain way in which individuals may be identified.

  Seeing Is Believing: Auralism and Its Role in Preserving

  ImPuritanism: Sister Florence, Venetian Books

  ‘Sister? Sister Florence? Art thou rousèd?’

  Florence felt a hand on her shoulder as Sister Bella desperately tried to shake her from sleep. She heard the ur
gency – the incipient panic more like – in the Sister’s voice, but she refused to signal that she was already awake. Using all her considerable self-control, Florence continued to feign sleep, lying unmoving on her cot, determined to keep her eyes tightly closed until she was satisfied that all her powers – mental, physical and, most importantly, metaphysical – were fully under her control before she rejoined the wakeful.

  In a world beset by turmoil, in a world gripped by evil, in a world where the slightest error could lead to the triumph of UnFunDaMentalism, it was vital that she was always fully composed, always prepared, always on her guard. Whilst ABBA might be all-merciful and willing to forgive transgressions, the Inquisition under Tomas de Torquemada most certainly was not.

  Satisfied that she was now in a sufficiently sanguine frame of mind to face whatever alarms were troubling Sister Bella, Florence slowly opened her eyes.

  ‘Sister, I beseech thee, make all haste,’ Sister Bella whispered, trying to keep her excitement under control, and not to wake any of the other Visuals sleeping in the dormitory. ‘Thou art to attend Abbé Niccolò himself. He desires to have much question with thee.’

  The Abbé Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli? That means he has found the Lady IMmanual.

  Florence kept her face bland and expressionless, but it was difficult. Machiavelli was the right-hand man to the Doge, Plenipotentiary Extraordinary of the Venetian Republic, and – whisper it quietly – head of the Venetian secret police, the infamous Signori di Notte. He was also, according to the Convent grapevine, the most cunning, conniving and downright duplicitous bastard in the whole of the Quartier Chaud. Venice was lucky to have him on its side.

  ‘Sister Bella, I prithee but allow me a moment to dress.’