The Equivoque Principle

by Darren Craske

  ‘Crazy! Yes, that is it,’ said Butter. He stared at the floor, as if that might provide him with some answers. ‘I am crazy. Mad as Hatter! There is no talking Prometheus. The time in that metal prison has addled my senses!’

  Prometheus tore off his thick woollen coat, untied his scarf, and placed them both over Quaint’s body. ‘We don’t have…time for this, man! Cornelius needs…help! And fast! Don’t ye see? Where’s the, ah…the Madame?’

  ‘Madame Destine? Madame not here,’ mouthed Butter robotically.

  ‘Yeah, I guessed that. Damn it,’ cursed Prometheus. ‘Gettin’ nowhere. Like talkin’…to a bloody parrot. Butter…for…God’s sake, man…snap out of it! I…need your…help here.’

  ‘Prometheus,’ whispered Butter, entranced. ‘Needs…my help?’

  ‘Cornelius is…damn near frozen, Butter, y’get me? His whole body’s…in shock—luckily for him, or else…he’d prob’ly be dead.’

  ‘Dead!’ snapped Butter, stomping his foot upon the ground. ‘But not dead?’

  Prometheus shook his head. ‘This is madness…We need t’warm him up…and we need t’do it now!’ The giant clamped his bushy mouth onto Quaint’s, holding his friend’s nose with his hand. He breathed warm breath into the still lungs, and then quickly swapped the hand to his chest to pump the heart. It had now been at least five minutes since Quaint had drawn a full breath, and time was of the essence. Again, Prometheus breathed and pumped and breathed and pumped, and again there was no response from Quaint. Prometheus massaged his heart in a rhythmic motion unrelentingly, as Butter’s fragile mind slowly came around to the prospect that maybe it wasn’t quite so addled after all.

  With a sudden cough, followed by a gasp for air, Cornelius Quaint sat bolt upright on the table, with Prometheus supporting his back. He coughed again, a dry, hoarse cough, and he clawed madly at his throat. His forehead was speckled with perspiration.

  ‘Wuh…Wuh…Where…?’ he wheezed.

  Butter rushed to his side, snapped out of his confused state. ‘Boss, lie still. You are quite safe…and look,’ he exclaimed. ‘Prometheus is here!’

  Quaint craned his neck to see the huge form by his side, rubbing away at his back.

  ‘Prom? Is…is it really you?’ he whispered.

  ‘Aye, mate, but…lay still and rest.’

  Quaint responded to the giant’s words with a furrowed brow. ‘But…you can talk?’

  ‘That is what I said…he speaks!’ said Butter. ‘But–’

  ‘But–’ began Quaint. ‘But you can’t–’

  ‘Oh, this…this is just grand. Now…it’s infectious!’ said Prometheus, shaking his head. ‘Will ye both…please stop saying “But”? Just…ah…just take it easy, Cornelius. I’ll tell ye all…once I c’n…grasp th’words meself!’

  Quaint rubbed at his neck, casting aside Prometheus’s thick coat. ‘Forget that! I can recuperate later, man. It’s damn good to see you again, my friend, but we don’t have time for a reunion right now. We need to get back to the…to the…to the train,’ Quaint tried to stand, his legs buckling like those of a newborn foal. He strained, and stared into Prometheus’s large brown eyes. ‘Prometheus, my good man, do me a favour will you?’

  ‘Anythin’,’ the Irishman replied.

  ‘Catch me.’

  Quaint’s eyes rolled to the top of his head, his legs totally gave out beneath him and he slumped limply into Prometheus’s open arms. He was unconscious once more and, within moments, snoring loudly. Prometheus clutched Quaint’s sleeping form to his warm chest.

  ‘Some welcome home party this turned out t’be,’ said Prometheus.

  Half-an-hour later, Cornelius Quaint re-entered the world of the living and came round again. His mouth was dry, and he stared intently at the huge figure in front of him. As if this was the first time they were seeing him, Quaint’s eyes took in every detail of the strongman. His hands reached out, and clasped Prometheus’s jacket tightly to prove to himself that he was no mirage.

  ‘Christ, Prometheus, it really is you!’ Quaint said, desperately trying to restore saliva to his mouth and dry lips.

  ‘In the flesh, Cornelius.’

  ‘I thought we’d lost you for good, my friend.’

  ‘I was lost…an’ bits of me still are I think,’ Prometheus said awkwardly. ‘From…th’look o’those bodies over there…we should move on. Someone’s sure…t’come back and check on ye…and they’ll…expect ye t’be dead. Where can we go? The train?’

  ‘Not just yet, there’ll be Peelers all over it,’ said Quaint. ‘Butter, how about the boat we came here in? Is it large enough for all three of us?’

  ‘It is doubtful, boss,’ said Butter. ‘But I agree…I have no wish to remain here long myself.’ The Inuit stared at the bodies littering the warehouse floor, and his mind wandered briefly back to the battle, and the lives he had been forced to take.

  Quaint stared at his pocket-watch. ‘Let’s try and make it to Hyde Park and to shelter as quick as we can; the circus is as good a place as any to hide out.’

  ‘Christ!’ cursed Prometheus, as he scratched at his bald head. ‘Wish I could just…get these damn…words out, man. Surely…th’circus will…be the first place the police…will think of looking.’

  ‘Or the last place, depending how smart they are. We’ll have to take the side roads to avoid bumping into anyone. There’s no better hiding place than in plain sight,’ said Quaint, sizing up Prometheus and Butter. ‘But look at the two of you…an Eskimo and a giant. I doubt that I could be travelling with anyone more conspicuous!’

  Prometheus mouthed silently, and smacked the side of his head as if trying to jar the right words into his mouth. ‘Mebbe we should…split up, like? Three targets’re harder t’find…than one, right?’

  ‘Well, you can forget that,’ snapped Quaint. ‘I’ve only just found you…I’m not about to risk losing you again. We need to get word to Destine at the railway station that you’re safe, and let her know what’s happening.’

  ‘Perhaps I go, boss?’ offered Butter. ‘Boat not hold us all, but I alone? Yes! It shall be not a problem. I go back to station and tell the Madame we found Prometheus.’

  ‘Actually…’twas me that found the two o’ ye!’ said Prometheus.

  ‘And just in the nick of time, apparently,’ said Quaint. ‘Butter, if you’re sure you want to go alone, then by all means, but we don’t want any unwanted attention. Just tell Destine to continue as normal. No need to drag her half-way across town tonight. Tell her to leave a skeleton crew onboard the train, and bring her out to the park first thing in the morning.’

  Butter nodded dutifully. ‘It shall be done, boss.’

  ‘And Butter?’ asked Quaint, watching the Inuit spin on his heels. ‘Those men mentioned me by name, remember? So it’s a safe bet someone wants me dead. We don’t know who our enemies are, but they surely know us. Be on your guard.’

  ‘Thank you, boss, I will,’ said Butter with a bow, and he skipped out of the warehouse towards the rowing boat.

  Prometheus and Quaint watched as Butter pulled hard on the boat’s oars, rowing away into the enveloping fog of the night. Within seconds, the misty shroud had swallowed him and he was no longer visible. Prometheus turned to Quaint, and slapped a huge hand on his friend’s back.

  ‘He’s…a plucky little thing, isn’t he?’ said Prometheus with a tug on his bristles. ‘A proper…little lep…lep…lepre–’

  ‘Leprechaun?’ offered Quaint.

  ‘Yeah…that’s the word. Sorry, Cornelius…a bit rusty.’ Prometheus kicked at a wooden post on the wharf in frustration at the disjointedness between his brain and his mouth. Although he knew exactly what he wanted to say, and it was waiting there patiently on his lips, he was finding it immeasurably hard to communicate it. He had been mute for so long. The words teased him, floating from his grasp before he could vocalise them, like trying to catch a butterfly without a net. So much so that each sentence was constructed in such a way that i
t sounded like a completely random series of words strung together by accident. The haphazard inflections were all over the place, marred even more by his melodic Irish accent.

  ‘No need to say sorry, Prom. I can imagine it is hard for you. And yes, Butter certainly is priceless. I only hope he makes it safely back. We need Destine up to speed when we see her. Come on; let’s make tracks whilst we’ve still got an advantage.’

  ‘We’ve got…an advantage?’ asked Prometheus dryly. ‘That makes a change.’

  ‘Of course we have, man!’ said Quaint. ‘Whoever sent those men to kill me knew the name Cornelius Quaint. Now, I don’t know who or why, but hopefully my enemy now thinks me dead. There’s no greater advantage than that, trust me—and whilst we’re on the move you can explain to me how a man who’s been mute his whole life can suddenly speak, hmm? Not to mention how the hell you knew where to find us?’

  ‘The tale o’ how…me voice returned…is one for another time, Cornelius,’ Prometheus said, his heavy eyes lowered to the ground like a chastised dog. ‘I got…more…important things. Been…hidin’ out…along docks for a while. Tell me…what’ve they found out? Police, I mean….’

  ‘About what? About your escape?’

  ‘Forget me…escape, man!’ growled Prometheus. ‘M’talkin’ about Tom Hawkspear! Are they any…closer t’findin’ ’im?’

  ‘Ah…’ Quaint puffed his cheeks, trying to find the right words. ‘To tell you the truth, my old friend, I don’t think they have even begun to look for him. They have a much larger target in mind. No, I think that if this Hawkspear demon is to be found…we shall have to get our own hands dirty!’

  ‘I won’t…let her death go unpunished, Cornelius,’ muttered Prometheus. ‘I just won’t! Even if…I have t’dredge the depths o’ hell meself!’

  Quaint slapped his hand upon the giant’s vast shoulder. ‘Then you will have my company in your task, my friend. She was a unique young woman,’ he said, his bottom lip floundering as he clenched the emotion behind his gritted teeth. ‘And I loved her like a daughter. She will not go unavenged, Prometheus…I swear to you.’

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  The Killer Connection

  AN HOUR LATER, after weaving their way through the labyrinthine backstreets of Lambeth, Quaint and Prometheus had made it to the near end of the Vauxhall Bridge, and they were close to their destination, crouched behind a large outbuilding.

  ‘So, what’s next?’ asked Prometheus, trying his best to squat down into the shadows. ‘Or are you on the…run from the…law now, same as me?’

  ‘We need Destine’s advice as to which direction we need to take,’ Quaint said.

  ‘A plan? That’s not like ye, Cornelius,’ said Prometheus, with a knowing wink. ‘Surely, the plan is…I go t’Crawditch and speak t’the Police. I need t’hand meself in, Cornelius! Clear up this…mis…understandin’, do ye not understand?’

  Quaint bit at his bottom lip, and stared at his Irish friend. It was confusing hearing Prometheus talk, and how tentatively each word was delivered, in such a contrast to his physical bulk. On more than one occasion the Irishman had begun a sentence, only to clamp his mouth shut and keep silent. But he was slowly getting his confidence back, and renewing his acquaintance with his voice. Quaint was biding his time, waiting for Prometheus to explain how it had miraculously reappeared. He had never heard his friend utter so much as a single syllable in all the time he had known him, and yet somehow the deep Irish twang was how he’d imagined Prometheus to speak. He was transfixed, watching the strongman’s big beard and moustache twitching from one side to the other like a ventriloquist’s dummy as Prometheus spoke.

  ‘I need t’hand meself in, clear up this mis…Er…misunder…misunderstandin’!’

  ‘Commissioner Dray has the weight of Scotland Yard bearing down on him at the moment,’ Quaint said. ‘He may decide to make a scapegoat out of you, and he’s certainly made it clear that my past friendship with him won’t sway the balance in your favour. If anything, it’d work against you.’

  ‘But, Cornelius…I can speak up for meself now…just about.’

  ‘Yes, I’d noticed that…and I have been waiting…’

  ‘Ye’re probably…wonderin’ how that…came about, right?’

  ‘Amongst other vexing questions swimming around my head, yes,’ said Quaint. ‘Such as: how on earth did you get out of prison? I thought I was supposed to be the magician, and here you are performing not one, but two miracles in one day.’

  Prometheus had known this conversation was coming. There was little point in trying to sidestep it. Like a wart on the end of his nose, there was no avoiding the attention. A seven-foot-plus mute giant who could now miraculously speak was sure to be a conversation starter.

  ‘Which…which one d’ye want t’hear first, eh?’ he asked Quaint.

  ‘The police station,’ replied his friend. ‘Forget just why you were stupid enough to escape when I had specifically told you to let me handle things…I want to know how you managed it. I inspected the bars on the window grate myself…they had been eaten away by acid. Now…how the hell did you get hold of acid in a bloody police station?’

  Prometheus rubbed a thick hand over his bald head. ‘Well, the …um…the answer to why I was so stupid…and how I escaped…is the same.’ He tensed as he heard a rustle in the building behind them, and Quaint’s hand darted out and grabbed his arm. The two hunched men relaxed as a ginger cat came scurrying out from the shadows, and they exchanged relieved glances. ‘Cornelius…I don’t don’t know…if this is the right place for this. It’s not easy…hearin’ me own voice, for a start!’

  ‘I’m in no rush, and it’s a long walk to Hyde Park,’ Quaint said, with a grin. ‘Did you suddenly get a visit from angels bestowing the gift of voice upon you, or something?’

  ‘There was…nothing angelic… about it, man,’ Prometheus answered. ‘Cornelius…m’not sure…how much sense I’ll make,’ he said, slumping his backside down onto the stony ground. ‘The truth is…it ain’t some miracle how I got…got me voice back…’cos it never really went away.’

  ‘What are you talking about, man?’ asked Quaint. ‘No pun intended.’

  Prometheus’s defences relaxed as he saw the glint of friendship in Quaint’s black eyes. He exhaled noisily, his beard fluttering in the breeze, and he sighed a mournful sigh, as if he were unburdening a lifelong secret—which of course, was exactly what he was about to do.

  ‘Well, the thing is…I…I chose not to speak.’

  ‘I think you’re getting your words confused,’ said Quaint. ‘What do you mean, you “chose” not to speak?’

  ‘I thought…it was…for the best…at th’time, anyways. Started out…like somethin’ to protect meself…next thing I knew…it was a dec…decade later. Think…I almost…convinced meself I was a mute.’

  Quaint’s brow furrowed. ‘You mean…all this time, all these years, you could have spoken…and yet you didn’t? But…why?’

  ‘It goes back t’years ago…back home in Ireland…someone very…close t’me…she was killed. Her name was Lily, an’ me an’ her got on just grand…the problem was, her family weren’t as…keen on me, ‘specially her two brothers.’

  Prometheus took a deep breath, as he laid out his past before Quaint. ‘They tried t’separate us time an’ again, ‘til one day…it all came to a head.’ He paused, catching the look of anguish on Quaint’s face. ‘Don’t you be lookin’ like that, mate,’ Prometheus said, almost tenderly. ‘I ain’t about…t’blub all over ye. I need to exorcise this demon…once and fer all. Y’see…Lily’s two brothers…they trapped her when I was out workin’. They…they locked her up in a barn…threatened t’set it on fire. I got home…only t’see ’em waving bloody torches aroun’ like some sort of witch-hunt. Lily’s youngest brother…Tommy…said somethin’ about me being a…a “freak against God” or somesuch nonsense…I punched him so hard, damn near took his head off…he threw his torch into the barn…said he woul
d rather…watch his sister burn than be wi’ a monster like me. I’m too busy fightin’ t’hear Lily’s screams…’

  ‘She died in the fire?’ asked Quaint.

  Prometheus nodded. ‘Aye, an’ her brother Sean with her. O’course…Tommy blamed me for it all.’ He sniffed back a tear that clung to the tip of his nose like a bead of early morning dew. ‘He was…a bad seed, that one. He ended up doin’ life…in Blackstaff prison…on account o’ the Irish refusin’ t’take ’im…somethin’ about his religious fixations…that sent a chill up their bones…I think. Don’t blame ’em…for what he’d done. Life wasn’t enough…if ye ask me. Should’ve hanged th’bastard.’

  ‘And what happened to you then?’ asked Quaint.

  ‘Me? I dried up like a prune, shut meself away,’ Prometheus said, a rueful smile on his broad face, as he relayed the darkest chapter of his life. Talking to Quaint was a sobering experience for the man—for them both. Here he was chatting away, baring his soul, and it felt good. It felt right. He could have done so at any time in the past, but something held him back. Something held him cocooned within himself. But now, with Twinkle’s death so raw to him, it was as if he didn’t have the strength to keep up the barriers any more. He was crawling further from his cocoon with each new revelation. ‘I just…just shut it all off…in me brain,’ he continued. ‘Like…’cos then maybe that way…no one’d get hurt again. From that day…’til today…I ain’t spoken a damn word to any soul.’ Prometheus pinched at his moustache, and scrambled to his feet. He clenched his fists, and then they hung limply at his sides. ‘When I found out about Twinkle…I realised it didn’t matter whether I…was a mute or not…the people I loved still got hurt. But, it ain’t easy to deal with, Cornelius…knowin’ that…every woman I fall…in love with…is destined to die. Mebbe it ain’t me…but, what if it is? What if…I’m…t’blame? What if I’m causin’ it all somehow?’