Widdershins

by Alexander, Alex

  ‘No I never.’

  ‘Well you must have, how else would she know where to find you?’

  ‘I don’t get it, sir? Is she comin’ ’ere? ’Ow’d you know?’

  Balthazar hissed.

  ‘Steady on, sir.’

  ‘I don’t have time for your brainlessness.’

  Niclas looked out into the street.

  ‘Eh, sir, ain’t that?’

  ‘WHAT?’ Balthazar turned to follow Niclas’ gaze out the window. In the street below a man in a long coat and a slouch hat was pushing his way through the drunkards, his eyes fixed up on their window.

  ‘Cor! ’E made it out,’ said Niclas, brightening.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ said Balthazar.

  The cat jumped to the floor and started running in circles.

  ‘Put something against the door. Barricade it. No… that won’t work. Why aren’t you packing! Pack!’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Doing it, sir.’

  ‘We’ll head out of the Brewery Quarter, maybe leave town for a few days. We don’t need to be here anymore. We could leave, go into the country, be ready for when the moons cross.’

  ‘We ain’t got much money, sir,’ said Niclas, pouring the last three coins into his hand. A shilling, a penny and a little dirty farthing. ‘We’s broke.’

  ‘BLAST!’

  ‘Sir, you gots to calm down, no good getting yourself into a tizzy.’

  ‘You really are stupid aren’t you. Thick. Slow headed. A moron. Of all the people I choose, I choose a complete and utter halfwit. Not even a halfwit, a quarterwit. An eighthwit! A sixteenthwit!’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  The doorknob began to turn. The door was locked from the inside. It rattled, shook, began to thud.

  ‘I’ll let ’im in,’ Niclas went to the door.

  ‘No!’

  Niclas stopped.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘But…’

  Niclas didn’t have time to answer this. There was an enormous crash and the door smashed open taking half the frame with it.

  The Witchhunter bundled in, both guns drawn, the stink of the sewer still clinging to his clothes.

  ‘You!’ he said, taking aim at Balthazar.

  ‘Easy, gov. We didn’t mean to leave you, honest.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ said Balthazar, ‘we are all in danger. We have to leave this place right now.’

  ‘You think I’m going to listen to you again, cat?’ The Witchhunter raised his thumbs and cocked each hammer back.

  ‘You really should listen to me.’

  Just then, Vera the harpist arrived at the tattered doorframe.

  ‘I do apologise, little sir,’ she said, ‘’e just barged past, I tried to stop ’im but…’ She paused, noticed the Witchhunter had guns and was pointing them at the cat, then noticed that the cat was speaking, and promptly fainted on the spot.

  ‘Please, sir, you ain’t gonna shoot ’im.’

  One of the guns found Niclas in its sights.

  ‘Nah, gov, I’ll stay outta it!’

  ‘They are coming,’ said Balthazar, ‘the City Watch and the Inquisition.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘They’ll be here any minute.’

  On street level, in the drunken disorder of the Brewery Quarter, Little Ron had returned with two men in toe.

  They both had bowler hats and they were both beating a studded club into the palm of their hand.

  ‘You thsure ’e’sth back?’

  ‘Pos’tiv, sirs.’

  ‘Wot we gonna do? That woman weren’t so friendly last time,’ said Clyde.

  ‘We’re gonna thsmasth the placth up, good ’n’ proper,’ said Archie, starting on a menacing stride down the street.

  Clyde followed.

  They got five paces before they stopped like a pair of spooked alley cats.

  Two six horse guard waggons came clattering down the road towards them and reeled in right outside the Queen’s Garter. City Watchmen armed with muskets began to empty from their rears.

  The two thugs had a sudden change of heart. They turned swiftly and walked the other way, keeping their heads low and hiding their clubs in their overcoats.

  Balthazar was back up at the window pane, Niclas and the Witchhunter leaning over him and pressing their faces to the glass.

  ‘They’re ’ere for us?’ Niclas shrieked.

  ‘They’re here for you,’ remarked the cat.

  ‘Why? Wot I done?’

  ‘Shh, listen,’ said Balthazar.

  They tried to listen but they couldn’t hear with their human ears what he could hear.

  Below them, through the flea infested floorboards, an altercation was taking place. Inspector Forsyth was demanding a room number and Madame Spriggs was playing stupid.

  Their words escalated into noise as the Inspector snatched the guest book and read through the list of names.

  No one gave their real name at the Garter.

  Only an idiot would give their real name.

  ‘We need to leave now,’ said Balthazar.

  The Witchhunter stuck his head into the corridor. He signalled the coast was clear, stepped over Vera the harpist and knocked on the door opposite. There was no answer. He knocked louder.

  The cat and Niclas entered the hall and stood at his back. Niclas tried to wrestle the sack into a better grip.

  The door opened a crack and a freshly shaven gentleman peered out at them.

  ‘Ella, is that you…’ he said, excitedly. This excitement evaporated when he gazed upon three of the most peculiar guests: an armed and rugged man, a frightened, scruffy boy, and a very vigilant looking cat. ‘Can I help you?’

  With a bash, the Witchhunter broke the chain off the door and sent the man toppling backwards onto the bed, where he grabbed his top hat just in time to cover his jewels.

  ‘Wh…wh…wh… what’s the meaning of this?’ he stammered.

  The Witchhunter went straight to the window whilst Balthazar kept the naked man in place by hissing at him. Niclas shut the door behind them, and apologised on behalf of his friends.

  ‘Help!’ squealed the man. Hurting their ears and alerting a few other ears downstairs.

  ‘Shut up you miserable fool or we’ll cut your throat,’ said Balthazar.

  The man shut up and gave the cat an anxious gawk.

  ‘It… it spoke…’ he said, stabbing at the air with his finger.

  ‘Don’t worry, gov, you ain’t nuts, it’s a complicated science that’s all.’

  The window opened stiffly, the breeze swept in and the Witchhunter leaned out. It was a cheaper room, one with a lovely view of red brick wall. Three floors below, an empty alley ran between the back streets of the Brewery Quarter.

  The Witchhunter snatched the sack from Niclas and dropped it out.

  ‘You first, boy,’ he said.

  Niclas poked his head into the draft just in time to watch the sack thud on the ground below.

  ‘You’re ’avin’ a laugh, gov, I’ll break me bloomin’ neck.’

  ‘Put your feet on the far wall and your back against this one,’ said the Witchhunter.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Niclas, taking another look at the drop. ‘Wot ’bout Balfazar?’ he asked.

  ‘Carry him.’

  ‘What?’ said Balthazar, provoking the stark naked man to stagger backwards, trip on his trousers and crawl into the corner like pitiful prey.

  ‘Come on, sir, I’ll take you down on me chest.’ Niclas got into position.

  ‘What’s the matter, cat, afraid of heights?’ said the Witchhunter.

  ‘No. I… I will not be touched.’

  The boy and the Witchhunter didn’t understand what this meant, but Balthazar was serious.

  ‘I’ll meet you in the alley,’ said the cat.

  The guards would hardly notice him sneaking between their feet. But it wasn’t going to work like that, because on hearing
the cat talk again, the pale buttocked man was driven into madness. He placed his hands over his ears and made a dash out the door and into a troop of Watchmen.

  The Witchhunter picked Balthazar up by the scruff of his neck and dropped him onto Niclas’ chest.

  ‘Ow! Yer nails, sir!’

  The guards entered the doorway, and the Witchhunter took aim.

  He fired a shot

  The first guard took the lead bullet in his chest and fell back into the corridor.

  The blast above scared Niclas and he missed his footing and slid down the wall a couple of feet.

  ‘Be careful you idiot!’ shouted Balthazar.

  ‘’S’alright, sir,’ said the boy, easing himself into a more comfortable descent. More shots fired above and smoke curled out of the window and into the air.

  ‘Hurry, you fool!’ said Balthazar, backing up into Niclas’ face.

  Niclas got a mouthful of fluff. In particular, bottom fluff, which even on a cat is not desirable.

  ‘I can’t see, sir,’ he said, spluttering.

  ‘You don’t need to see,’ cried Balthazar. ‘You don’t want to see. Stop spitting – down, down, steady…’

  The Witchhunter looked out to check on their progress and a shot shattered the glass pane above him. He turned and fired back.

  Shards of glass showered the cat and the boy. Balthazar wriggled the pieces from his back, unbalancing Niclas; who, in an attempt to restrain the cat, reached with one hand and met the pointed ends of his master’s claws.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ snapped the cat.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Nearly there.’

  The Witchhunter moved towards the door. Out in the hallway, guards were filling up all the space. A shot splintered the woodwork beside him, an inch more to the left and his brains would have splattered everywhere.

  He slammed the door shut.

  Both his guns were dry.

  He tossed the duvet onto the floor and pulled the sheet from the bed.

  Was it long enough?

  He wrapped one end of it around the near bedpost and spun the rest into a makeshift rope.

  Niclas felt his feet touch the bottom and opened his eyes. Balthazar jumped down.

  ‘I’m glad that’s over,’ he said, returning to his usual calm and collected demeanour, and bathing the boy’s germs from his paws.

  Niclas looked up. The shots had stopped.

  What was going on? Where was the Witchhunter?

  ‘Let’s go!’

  ‘Ain’t we gonna wait?’

  ‘Don’t you learn anything? No, leave him,’ said the cat.

  They were just about to flee, when he saw the Witchhunter above. The man bungee jumped – or sheet jumped from the window, and fell through the air like a stone.

  Upstairs, a Watchman had made it into the room, and had rushed to the window with his musket in hand. At that moment, the sheet pulled taut, ripped the bed from its spot, across the floor and slammed it into the window.

  SMACK

  Balthazar stepped aside to avoid the falling rifle and the Witchhunter, who landed with birdlike elegance.

  ‘Impressive,’ he said.

  They darted through the back streets of the Brewery Quarter.

  But they were not out of trouble yet. Rifles fired at them from down the street and as they came close to the next corner, a coach carrying a fresh batch of Watchmen rolled to a stop and unloaded before them.

  ‘This way,’ said the Witchhunter, slipping off into a small passage.

  Down a treacherous flight of narrow steps and across a tight cobblestone street, the yeasty pong of the canal came into smell – and then view.

  The Witchhunter leapt off the wharf and landed in a small rowing boat captained by a lone gondolier. He grabbed hold of the boatman’s oar, gave him a stiff shove into the canal then turned the oar over in his hands and eased the vessel out.

  Balthazar paused over the edge of the wharf. ‘What are you doing?’ he said.

  The Witchhunter didn’t answer back. There wasn’t time for detailed escape plans.

  Balthazar inspected the water. He looked for the crossings. The nearest bridge was three hundred yards away. The guards wouldn’t be able to follow if they could cross. He leapt and briefly flew, limbs akimbo like a flying squirrel, and landed neatly into the stern of the boat.

  Niclas’ descent wasn’t as graceful. He tripped, scattering the reagents and candles from the sack.

  He recovered himself and as quick as he could, gathered the things up and raced to the end of the wharf. But he’d lost valuable time. The boat was drifting further away. Maybe even too far.

  ‘Jump, boy,’ cried Balthazar.

  Niclas hated water. He’d gone all his life without ever crossing the canal on a boat. He stared fearfully at the gloopy, green algae infested surface. It was like a patch of grass, with bottles and papers and twigs and leaves half submerged within it.

  ‘What is he doing?’ said the Witchhunter.

  ‘What are you doing?’ called Balthazar.

  The guards were coming up behind him. He could hear their boots on the cobbled steps.

  If the sack could make it he could make it. That was the extent of his reasoning. He tossed the bag through the air and into the boat.

  Right, I can do this, he thought. He took a few deep breaths and swung his arms to and fro, psyching himself up.

  Balthazar and the Witchhunter looked on with puzzled expressions.

  He needed a run up. It wouldn’t be a big one, the City Watch were nearly on him. He took a few paces back, held his breath and broke into a fierce sprint to the edge of the wharf. Then he leapt.

  In mid air, about halfway between the ground and the boat, he regained his smile.

  He was going to make it!

  Then he fell straight down and the water went splash.

  The boat knocked against the wharf on the other side of the canal and Balthazar and the Witchhunter fled to cover.

  ‘We have to go back!’ said Balthazar. ‘We can’t leave him.’

  The Witchhunter peered from behind the wall and looked across the canal. There were at least ten Watchmen in sight, all with muskets.

  ‘We can’t leave him, he’s just a poor boy, he–’

  ‘What do you want from him?’ said the Witchhunter, bluntly. He was a man who liked to get straight to the point of things.

  ‘He’s my helper… carries things… brings me milk… opens doors…’

  ‘Bull.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘How dare you… I am not.’

  The Witchhunter pulled a gun from its holster and confirmed it was empty. He opened the clockwork centre, poured a vial of gunpowder into each of the three cylinders, inserted three pinches of wadding after them, then popped in three lead balls the size of marbles. He closed the mechanism and unhinged the ramrod from the underside, then pushed down the barrel and twisted the centre three times so each shot was loaded.

  Balthazar watched carefully.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  The man pointed the gun at the cat’s head.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Why would you? I’m no harm to you. It’d be murder.’

  ‘I can live with it.’

  ‘But…’

  The Witchhunter’s finger lifted from the trigger guard and onto the iron ring.

  ‘You’re serious?’ said Balthazar, realising his life now hung in the balance of the man’s index finger.

  ‘I know what you are, witch. I know what those markings in the room meant. I’m well read in the Black Science and I know what you’re planning to do with that boy. He’s better off with them than he is with you.’

  ‘I told you… I’m not a witch. I’m merely a man seeking a cure. You’ve misread it. It’s not–’

  ‘It’s not what?’

  ‘It’s not what you think.’

  The Witchhunter was about to squeeze th
e trigger but Balthazar managed to get one last word in.

  ‘Logicide.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’ll have the boy for logicide. You must know what they do to people in that building of theirs. He’ll be broken, physically and mentally. They’ll take their time with him. Atone him for his madness. They’ll crush every last bit of him. And then, only when he has one last breath of life to give, they’ll kill him.’

  The Witchhunter considered this.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘But there is. There is something we can do about it.’

  ‘We? There’s no we cat.’

  ‘Of course there is. I have talents. You have… muscles… and guns.’

  The Witchhunter shook his head.

  ‘Fine. Shoot me. Be done with it. But you will remember this day for as long as you shall live. It will burn your conscience forever. You’ll wonder what would have happened had you listened to the cat that could talk.’

  The Witchhunter flexed his finger.

  He stared into the cat’s eyes.

  Balthazar stared back.

  The two were locked in a vicious stare off.

  It’s a fools game to play, trying to outstare a cat, they’ve got the eyes for it. But Balthazar didn’t have the self confidence he usually had. This man was cold. There was none of the jolly naivety behind his eyes that ordinary people tended to have. And so the cat wet its lips and was about to utter the beginnings of a reptilian chant.

  But he didn’t need it.

  The Witchhunter had no qualms murdering a cat, least of all one enveloped in the Black Science. He did, however, have issue with the boy. Leaving him there was as good as shooting him in the stomach and leaving him to die.

  ‘Blast you, witch,’ the Witchhunter shouldered the pistol. ‘I swear it, I will be the one to kill you and end your diabolical ways. Whether tonight, tomorrow, the next day, mine will be the last face you see.’

  Balthazar smiled. Then withdrew it immediately.

  Probably best not to get carried away, he thought.

  Niclas was wet through, dripping and shivering in the nipping breeze. The canal wasn’t like the bath in the Queen’s Garter. It was cold and smelly and had made his eyes red.