Widdershins

by Alexander, Alex

‘No… Not that kind of funny really…’

  ‘Wot about when you got…’

  ‘You know,’ said Tommy, ‘thinkin’ ’bout it, it ain’t really funny at all. Just weird.’

  ‘Wot?’

  ‘Well ’parrently, there’s this little orphan lad wot’s bin stayin’ at t’Garter o’ late. Practically livin’ there I ’eard.’

  Job had faded out again. His eyelids felt like they were being pulled shut by tiny invisible strings.

  ‘Livin’ at the Queen’s Garter! Talk ’bout spenny!’ said Jack.

  ‘Yeah, but ’e don’t mingle with the ladies. ’E don’t drink neither. Boy likes ’is privacy see. He goes in ’n’ outta t’place, always wiv candles, black ones, prob’s ’as a fear o’ the dark or summin. And he’s got a pet cat too.’

  ‘Didn’t knows animals wos allowed in the Garter?’

  ‘They ain’t. But it’s probs cos all the ladies ’av’ got a sweet spot for the lad, ’im bein’ an orphan ’n’ all. They’re all talkin’ ’bout ’im.’

  ‘Black candles…’ Job murmured half asleep.

  ‘Where’d you ’ear this then?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Uhhh… I got a friend,’ said Tommy. ‘A friend o’ a friend really. Actually, more like an acquaintance a couple times removed. ’E was there last night chattin’ wiv the girls in the smokin’ room. They’re all goin’ on about this little lad. Got a big in’eritance from ’is family or summin. They’re all fascinated by it, as you can imagine.’

  ‘’Ere, ’ow old’s this lad anyway?’ said Jack.

  ‘Dunno. But he’s not a man yet. ’E’s doin’ better than the three of us all put together, Job and ’is purse included, and ’is tallywags probs ain’t even dropped yet.’

  ‘Lucky chap indeed.’

  ‘Wot’s lucky?’ said Job, rousing.

  Two men had stopped off at the Frothy Head for a drink. They had been sat at the bar, wallowing in their miseries, when their ears pricked up to listen in on the three gamblers.

  They finished their gins, straightened their hats and strolled over to the table.

  There was something menacing about them. Maybe it was the way they walked like they owned the place. Or maybe it was the clubs hanging from their belts.

  ‘Evenin’, gentsth,’ said one, who had a swollen lip and a pair of black eyes. ‘Me ’n’ me pal ’ere couldn’t ’elp over ’earin’ your conversthaython.’

  ‘Eavesdroppin’ were you?’ said Tommy.

  ‘It ain’t eavesdroppin’ when yer talkin’ loud nuff,’ said the other hatted man.

  ‘We didn’t mean to disturb you,’ said Jack.

  ‘Wot’sth thisth you wosth justht thsayin’?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Tommy was too drunk for conversations with strangers. Especially ones with lisps.

  ‘Thsummin ’bout a boy?’

  ‘Wot’s it got to do with you?’ Unlike Jack, Tommy hadn’t yet caught drift that these were two men you didn’t talk back to.

  ‘Call me curiousth.’

  Tommy stared up at the man’s bruised face. ‘Just some rich boy.’

  ‘Thisth boy, ’e hasth a cat wiv ’im you thsaid?’

  ‘Yeah. Wot ’bout it?’

  Job was looking through hazy eyes at the new encounter. He could just about make out the clubs under their moth-holed jackets. His drunk-sense was tingling. The sense that tells a man when he’s had too much, or when he’s had just enough not to be able to deal with the moment in hand.

  ‘Wasth it a black cat? White patthch under itsth neck? Green eyesth?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I ain’t seen it.’

  ‘It’s ’im Archie,’ said the other hatted man. ‘The talkin’ cat.’

  ‘Thshhhh.’

  The two gamblers exchanged clueless looks at each other. Job straightened up.

  ‘Wot d’you say?’ he said.

  ‘Thisth boy, thstayin’ at the Queen’sth Garter you thsaid?’

  ‘That’s right. Wots it to you?’ said Tommy.

  ‘Hmmm. Thank you, gentsth, ’av’ a nithe evenin’.’ The lisping man turned and walked away. The other, doffed his bowler hat and followed after.

  ‘Strange fellas,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Say, see ’is face, looked all smashed up.’

  ‘Wonder wot they wanted. Job? ’ey, Job? You there?’

  Job was staring into the bubbles again. Only this time he wasn’t looking at the drink, he was staring into his head.

  Boy likes his privacy, they said. Black candles, they said. Talking cat, they said…

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ Job rose so quickly he nearly took the table with him.

  ‘Steady on, mate, you owe us ahnuva round.’

  ‘Yeah, and I fawt we were gonna ’av’ ahnuva game?’

  ‘Uhhh… next time… Sorry. Sorry.’

  Job departed, returned, finished his drink in one, then departed again.

  Out of the mouths of babes oft times come gems. The same can be said about the mouths of drunks, though it’s a great deal less common.

  Job had a hunch. A feeling in his gut that wasn’t just a bloated beer belly feeling. He knew there were certain kinds of gossip to listen out for. Some would net you a large sum of money, if you knew what to do.

  But it’s a rather difficult task finding a man who doesn’t wish to be found. A man who has no fixed address or name or friends. Job had set up his first meeting with the strange man through a mutual connection. Another drunken rambling with a wealthy ending. But this time he was on his own. And unhelpfully, steaming.

  So he did the very thing that no one ever did in the Brewery Quarter, he asked questions.

  He walked from public house to public house, a feat that wasn’t new to him, and in each gave a brief description of the Witchhunter’s appearance.

  He was served a collage of mixed reactions. Most threw him out at the door for being too woozy and everywhere else said they hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

  Of all the places Job Button tried, only one seemed to have genuinely seen the mysterious man. The landlord told him that the man in question had stayed on one occasion, slept in the day and was out all evening.

  ‘’E kept ’imself t’ ’imself, ’n’ didn’t even order a drink. Most strange, I tell ya.’

  Job continued his inquiries, though it appeared to be in vain: how could he hope to find a man who only slept once wherever he stayed?

  But that evening, which soon turned to morning, Job’s search met an end, for let it be a lesson to all, that if you go about looking for troublesome things, they tend to find you before you find them.

  And find Job Button they did, at the revelation of a pistol butt cracking against the back of his head.

  A rough hand pulled in the fabric at his throat and pinned him to the wall. The barrel of the gun dug against the soft flesh beneath his jaw.

  ‘Are you an idiot? A malformed thinker? A fool on all rights?’ said the Witchhunter in a voice that had all the aggression of a shout yet all the intimacy of a whisper.

  Job stuttered incoherent sentences until his attacker retracted the gun a little.

  ‘Did you think I had ripped you off? I had forgotten you? I pay my debts Mr Button. But to go about asking questions in such a manner that draws attention to my stay here, earns you your weight of gold in lead.’ The hammer of the pistol clicked back and brought water to Job Button’s pants. Literally.

  ‘I cannot stay in a single place where you have painted my portrait. You’ve made things very difficult for me.’

  ‘I needed t’find you. I gots more news. More goss. More stuff ’bout… the Black Science,’ said Job.

  The Witchhunter stared into his informant’s eyes, searching for any trace of deceit. Seeing nothing but a fool, he stood back, lowered his pistol and looked around to check no one was near.

  ‘Speak it.’

  ‘Right… There I was ’avin’ meself a quiet game o’ cards. I was havin’ a stinker, but I was gonna win it back.
I don’t ’av’ a gamblin’ problem or nuffin’. And I ain’t that drunk, I may look it, but it’s cause I’ve been runnin’ around for who knows ’ow many ’ours lookin’ for you. You know, you’d probs get more leads if you ’ad a callin’ card or summin. I know’s a bloke who prints ’em–’

  ‘I am not a patient man,’ added the Witchhunter, accelerating Job’s tale to the point.

  ‘Yeah, o’ course, o’ course. So, me gamblin’ mates are talkin’ and… word is, there’s a suspicious fella stayin’ at the Queen’s Garter. Very suspicious. Likes candles. Black ones. That’s Black Science stuff ain’t it? I ’eard that once. No one uses black candles. No one.’

  ‘If that’s all you have then I should kill you dead just for wasting my time.’

  ‘Black candles ain’t good enough?’

  ‘No, Mr Button. Black, red, blue I don’t care what colour candles there were, that is not proof of anything. You’re a fool if you think it is. Nothing but a drunken fool.’

  ‘Look. That ain’t all. We wos chattin’ away ’bout this lad. Can’t remember the ins and out exactly, I wos ’alfway through a good daydream… but then these two blokes come over. Mean lookin’ blokes. Look like the sort that’d rob your nan. They started askin’ questions. ’Bout the boy, see.’

  The Witchhunter’s finger tightened around the trigger of his pistol.

  ‘Then… odd fing ’appens. One of em says summin ’bout a talkin’ cat. The other tells ’im to thshhhh.’

  The Witchhunter raised an eyebrow.

  ‘He ’ad a lisp, see. But this all got me finkin’, black candles, suspicious fella, a cat, which is weird enough cause we all know cats are dodgy. But he said summin ’bout it talkin’. I fawt to meself, cats can’t talk. That’s logicide that. But, if cats could talk and if this cat were talkin’, it’s either logicide or… it’s…’ Job paused for emphasis, ‘the Black Science.’

  The Witchhunter stared blankly at the drunk.

  ‘Is that all?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah… But that’s good enough, ain’t it? Good enough for another purse o’ coins?’

  ‘Mr Button,’ said the Witchhunter, trying to keep his temper in, ‘you’ve been drinking with other drunks and one of the drunks said he thought he heard a cat talk, and you thought that enough to come looking for me?’

  ‘Don’t forget ’bout ’em black candles.’

  The pistol butt cracked Job over the head again.

  ‘Owww!’

  ‘Fool.’

  ‘But ain’t you gonna check it out?’

  The Witchhunter clasped Job by his shirt and slammed him up against the wall.

  ‘Stay away from me. Don’t ever try to find me. Mention my existence to anyone and I shall come for you and do all the world a favour and put a bullet in your head.’

  ‘…but.’

  The Witchhunter had nothing more to say, he walked out of the alley and into the busy streets of the Brewery Quarter.

  Job had never felt more sober. His pants were wet, his head was sore and last night’s nine Hoppy Endings were churning in his stomach. But at least he could buy a drink with what money he had left…

  Unless of course… he’d left it in the Frothy Head.

  As for the Witchhunter, he had no reason to listen to the fool.

  But nor did he have a reason not to.

  Later that day…

  Niclas still hadn’t quite got the knack of drawing. But, with constant assistance from Balthazar, he’d managed to draw the complicated sigil on the floor of the bedroom.

  Two large circles, one just inside the other, chalked around a series of geometric lines crisscrossing through its centre like a spider’s web. It almost looked like the one that had been sketched on the parchment. Almost.

  Between the two circles, in a narrow ring around the edge, were glyphs which had taken literally hours for Niclas to get right. It had been a case of Balthazar placing his paw at one point, Niclas marking a dot, then again at another point, and Niclas joining them up.

  Niclas wasn’t sure at all if it was right, but he was impressed regardless.

  ‘Pretty good that? Wot d’you fink, sir?’

  ‘It’s certainly an improvement,’ said Balthazar. ‘Lie in the middle of it with one of those candles would you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Niclas lay so his head touched the top of the inner circle and his feet the bottom. It was just like old times, he thought, before he’d known about beds.

  ‘This is just a rehearsal, so don’t feel too under pressure,’ said Balthazar.

  ‘Ok…’ Niclas suddenly felt under pressure, having not felt the need to feel under pressure before.

  ‘Hold the candle against your chest.’

  ‘Like this, sir?’

  ‘No… pointed.’

  ‘Like this?’

  ‘No… pointed up.’

  Niclas pointed the candle to the ceiling.

  ‘Hold it like a… as you would a… a dagger.’

  ‘A dagger, sir?’ asked Niclas.

  ‘A knife, you know.’

  ‘Oh! I get you, sir,’ said Niclas, laughing at himself. He must have looked pretty stupid. He adjusted his grip.

  ‘The other way… With the pointy end against you.’

  ‘Ohhhh,’ said Niclas, finally getting it. ‘I see, sir. Righto. Like this?’

  ‘Yes. Perfect.’

  ‘Wot ’bout all that stuff we got from that foreign geezer? Do we need that too?’

  Balthazar was reading over the parchment, checking he’d got everything right.

  ‘Uhh, yes,’ he said, without lifting his eyes, ‘but there’s no need for it now. You’ll have to drink something made from those things.’

  ‘Drink summin? Wot’s it taste like?’ Niclas remembered all those days he and the boys had spent mixing Speckled Gin, the Bowler Gang’s number one product. One of the boys would always have to taste a batch before it was bottled, that way they’d know if they’d made the semi-deadly stuff, or the straight-up lethal stuff. Neither tasted that good. It was like drinking dirty lantern oil, lantern oil that’s on fire.

  ‘It’ll taste… very nice, don’t you worry about that,’ said Balthazar.

  ‘Good. Bit parched now if I’m honest, sir.’ Niclas licked his dry lips.

  ‘Yes…’ said Balthazar, not really paying attention.

  ‘Reckon I could pop down for a glass o’ water, sir?’

  ‘Sorry, did you say something?’ The cat looked up from the parchment.

  ‘Just a bit firsty, that’s all, sir.’

  ‘Yes. Ok. But I need you to bring me something else.’

  ‘Wot is it, sir?’ asked Niclas, getting to his feet and dusting the chalk from his clothes. Whenever his new master asked for something, it was always something strange and odd.

  ‘Milk,’ said Balthazar.

  ‘Milk, sir?’ Niclas creased his brow and assumed the expression of deep, curious thought.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wot’s that for sir?’

  The cat stared back ominously. Then he said, ‘I’m thirsty, too.’

  ‘Righto, sir, I’ll be back in a jiffy.’

  As Niclas approached the landing of the stairwell, a group of the Garter’s maidens were all immersed in giggles and gossiping. He didn’t know what they were laughing at. They lifted their hands to hide their snickering, and watched him go past with magnetic stares. He had an inkling they were laughing at him, but he couldn’t explain why. He thought, perhaps, his new watch hanging from his waistcoat had something to do with it.

  ‘Afternoon, ladies,’ he said, confidently, tipping his hat where his hat would have been if he’d been wearing a hat.

  Hehehe!

  He walked into the lounge, past Vera the harpist who gave him a wink, and up to the main counter, where Madame Spriggs sat, painting her nails a shade of red that wasn’t far off the decor.

  ‘’Ello, miss.’

  ‘’Ello, young master, wot can we do for you t
oday.’

  The girls by the stairs were still giggling.

  ‘I just comes for a drink that’s all.’

  ‘Certainly, young master,’ Madame Spriggs lit up and got to her feet. Her customers always spent a bit more when they’d had a drink or two, and she suspected this customer had quite a bit of money in his, in-ear-ett-ence. ‘We ’av’ whiskey, rum, gin, sacky, vodka–’

  ‘Just a glass o’ water will do me, miss,’ said Niclas.

  Madame Spriggs lost her shine.

  ‘Right… o’ course, anyfing ’is young master wants.’

  To her surprise, Niclas began rooting for coins in his pocket. The water was free… but he didn’t know that.

  ‘’Ow much is that?’

  ‘…Uhh…’ Madame Spriggs hesitated. ‘A threepence, little sir,’ she said.

  ‘I also needs some milk, miss?’

  ‘Milk?’

  ‘Yeah… for me stomach. Always settles me uhh in-der-gest-john,’ said Niclas.

  ‘Right… whole or semi skimmed?’

  ‘Sorry, miss?’

  ‘The blue or the green, m’luv?’

  ‘…’ This perplexed Niclas even more, he didn’t know that there were blue or green cows. ‘Err… Which would you recommend?’

  The girls could be heard laughing again.

  Even Madame Spriggs looked as if she was about to laugh, but she kept her smile tight.

  ‘Blue is best for a young lad like you.’

  ‘Ok… some o’ that please.’

  ‘I’ll just fetch it, little sir, we don’t keep it in the warm.’

  ‘Alright.’

  Niclas turned smoothly and struck a lean against the counter doing his best to look cool. Some people, no matter how hard they try can’t look cool, and the harder these people try to look cool, the less cool they look. Niclas was probably the most uncool cucumber in Laburnum.

  He watched Vera like a charmed snake, unable to fathom how she moved her fingers up and down the harp to produce such delicate sounds.

  The lounge of the Garter was never that busy, but nor was it empty, there were always a few old gentlemen puffing pipes and chatting to the girls. The Garter drew its own sort of customer, ones who had money, which in the Brewery Quarter was a very small slice of the pie. As such, you didn’t get the usual rabble nor the smell and the noise that followed it.