A Plague of Hearts

by Patrick Whittaker

Beneath the sprawl of Enigma ran a maze of tunnels that had probably given the city its name. Many of the tunnels served as sewers. Some were wine cellars. Still others were unexplored or even forgotten. No-one in recent times could have said why they were built, or by who. The favoured theory - that they were the remains of a subterranean city - begged more questions than it answered.

  ‘The Rabbit Hole,’ said Lisa.

  ‘You’ve been here before,’ said the March Hare.

  Lisa did not answer. Her face was raised in a kind of rapture to the sky. The March Hare could see in her eyes a strength he had never suspected. It was a strength tempered by determination, by pain and sorrow, a strength untainted by bitterness.

  She should hate me for what I’ve done, thought the March Hare. When I brought her Shadrack, she should have slapped me and clawed at my face, called me every name under the sun. I thought I knew her almost as well as I know myself, but it seems I was wrong. Unless I don’t know myself either.

  The night seemed to darken. Instinctively, the March Hare looked up at the sky, saw a shadow touch the moon.

  ‘An eclipse,’ he said.

  The Duchess adjusted her spectacles. ‘How jolly fascinating.’

  Only Shadrack was left unmoved by the phenomenon. He stood at Lisa’s side, gazing at the ground like a sinner confronted by an angel. For him there was no sky, no moon or stars. Only a dull ache, a vague comprehension of his own existence.

  Far away, a church bell voiced its plaintive cry. Like a metal beast, it called ten times across the silence of the night.

  Something inside Shadrack answered. It stirred in his mind, worried with sharp, insistent claws at the one small part of him that could still be called human.

  For a moment, lucidity came. He remembered a night of thunder, of death falling from the sky, the ground seeming to open beneath his feet. A wash of napalm. His companions dissolving in flames. Fire stripping the flesh from his face. The awful certainty that he was about to die. Then there had been darkness and the darkness had suddenly exploded into blinding light. And after the light - a white room. A cage. A bird…

  He felt betrayed. Nature had promised him the peace of Death and then failed to deliver. Like an animal caught in a snare, he was vaguely aware of the injustice of his situation. He’d had his share of pain. Now the Universe owed it to him to leave him be, to let him slip quietly away from this world.

  Shadrack wanted to die.

  The claws stopped scraping. The human in his mind went back to sleep and all that filled Shadrack was that same dull ache which seemed to have been with him forever.

  Tiring of the eclipse, the March Hare probed the Rabbit Hole with the beam of his flashlight. Stone steps eased their way into the ground. He was still unable to fathom the Duchess’s reasons for wanting to bring Shadrack here. Surely there were better places to hide him than this unappealing hole in the ground.

  It’s as if we’re out to bury him, he thought. Because he’s not really alive, we want him to be dead. We’re sending him underground to join the souls of the departed.

  ‘Oh my,’ said the Duchess of Langerhans, suddenly remembering both her business and the 2 a.m. curfew. ‘We had best be on our way.’

  *

  At the bottom of the stairs, a stone chamber arched protectively over a pool of stagnant water. A gentle draught seemed to ebb and flow around them as if the underground were a living, breathing thing. Damp brickwork and the constant drip-drip-dripping of water added to the impression of standing inside the windpipe of an immense organism.

  The March Hare swept the walls with his flashlight, chasing shadows that grew, shrank and twisted grotesquely. Patches of purple moss gave an obvious clue to how the Velvet Underground had gotten its name.

  ‘Isn’t it warm?’ said Lisa. Holding Shadrack’s hand, she led the way forward, reinforcing the March Hare’s conviction that she was no stranger to the place.

  Fifty yards ahead, a tall archway marked the end of the chamber. Passing through it, they came to a narrow tunnel.

  To the March Hare, the way ahead seemed daunting. He wondered that the Duchess, for all her aristocratic bearing, did not mind setting her feet in mud or having to steady herself against walls thick with grime. Her dress was already mottled with filth; a line of dirt ran from her temple to her chins.

  The March Hare did not suppose that he looked any better himself. But somehow that was different. He was working class. For him, getting dirty was a fact of life, a fitting consequence of the work ethic. The dignity of labour.

  They came to a bridge. A long way below, a rivulet of black water flowed onwards and downwards, following a course mapped out for it by the engineers of a bygone age. Moonlight flooded through a grille in the roof, indicating that the eclipse was nearing its end. Here the moss was thicker, almost luxuriant.

  The March Hare reached up to touch it. It felt like damp velvet.

  Finally, they came to a huge, circular cavern from which several other tunnels radiated. Its gothic buttresses and mosaic floors spoke of a grander design than the rest of the Velvet Underground had so far suggested. Gargoyles grinned down from high up on the walls, petrified beasts smiling at some private joke. The floor was covered in runes and pentagrams.

  Lisa placed her hand against one of the buttresses. Immediately, soft light poured into the chamber, bathing it in a twilight glow.

  The sudden light startled the March Hare. It took him a moment to fathom its source - electric lamps placed in niches around the wall.

  If all this was bizarre, it paled into mundanity against the sight of the figure sitting at a walnut desk on the far side of the chamber. The red and white patchwork of his jacket competed for attention with his purple sombrero. He was not particularly thin, not particularly stocky. Youngish but hardly a boy. In fact, apart from his clothes, his one distinguishing characteristic was the enormous sadness of his eyes.

  ‘My dear Mock Turtle,’ said the Duchess. ‘How nice to see you.’

  The figure doffed his hat but did not rise. From his manner, it was clear he had been expecting them. ‘Likewise,’ he said in a graveside voice.

  ‘I’m so glad you could make it,’ the Duchess gushed. ‘These days one can rely on so very few people, but you, my dear Mock Turtle, never let me down.’

  The Mock Turtle allowed the briefest of smiles to flicker across his lips. ‘You’re not alone I see.’

  ‘I have brought Lisa and Shadrack along with me. Also the March Hare.’

  ‘The dude who burnt the King’s bed?’

  ‘Amongst other things,’ said the March Hare. He felt an instinctive dislike for the Mock Turtle whose gaudy suit contrasted so markedly - so dishonestly - with his austere looks. ‘Why are you called the Mock Turtle?’

  ‘Because I’m not really a turtle,’ came the reply.

  ‘To business,’ said the Duchess, advancing towards the desk. ‘There’s much to be done and very little time in which to do it.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait for Ormus?’ asked the Mock Turtle, vacating his seat.

  ‘He’ll be here soon enough,’ said the Duchess. She eased herself into the chair and settled down behind the desk. Coming closer, the March Hare was able to make out the inscription on the plaque which dominated the front of the desk. It read:

  Social Rehabilitation Scheme

  Chief Welfare Officer

  Her Grace, the Duchess of Langerhans

  Once again the March Hare found himself wrong-footed by events. Though he knew well-enough that the Duchess involved herself with a great many charitable causes, this was one facet of her work he had never even suspected.

  He turned to Lisa. She had detected his astonishment and seemed amused by it.

  ‘The Duchess and I,’ she said, ‘have a very long association with this place.’

  ‘But why? What possible good can you do down here?’

  ‘Let’s just say for now that the Duchess moves in mysterious ways. You’ll discover her purpose soon eno
ugh.’

  ‘Ah, my dear Doctor,’ said the Duchess. ‘How unusually punctual you are tonight!’

  The March Hare turned to find Doctor Ormus and Julie framed by the archway through which he himself had just entered. They were both dressed in jeans and anoraks. Each carried a flashlight.

  Doctor Ormus bowed. ‘May I say how charming Your Grace looks tonight? Truly a vision.’

  ‘That’s terribly kind of you, Doctor. Terribly kind.’

  ‘And may I introduce to you my companion and assistant, Julie?’

  Julie approached the desk and curtsied. ‘Good evening, Your Grace.’

  The Duchess peered at Julie over the horizon of her half-moon spectacles. ‘Oh, you delightful child. What very fine cheek bones you have, my dear. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you had aristocratic blood in you. Oh yes. In fact, you do rather remind me of my dear cousin, the Countess of Tibia. She was violated by a wereboar on her wedding night. Most unfortunate. ‘You’re not by any chance her daughter, are you?’

  ‘No, Your Grace.’

  ‘Just as well really. I understand the poor child is having the most ghastly adolescence imaginable. It seems she has a rather awkward habit of turning into a pig whenever there’s a full moon. Of course, one can imagine the frightful difficulties the poor child has courting young men.

  ‘You know, I’m a silly woman. I do appear to have left my cigarettes back at the house. You wouldn’t happen to have… ?’

  ‘Afraid not, Your Grace.’

  ‘Anybody?’

  There was a general shaking of heads. The Duchess sighed heavily. Reaching between her breasts, she produced a hand-rolled cigarette. ‘Just have to make do with something with a bit more zip then.’

  Ormus stepped forward with a lighter in his hands. As he held it to the Duchess’s joint, its flame cast flickering shadows on the rolling flatlands of her jowls. It was reminiscent of wheat fields caught in an autumn breeze.

  The Duchess drew thankfully on her joint. When she spoke, she spoke in clouds. ‘I regret that the circumstance under which we meet is not a happy one, Doctor. But then, these are not happy times, are they?’

  ‘Indeed not,’ agreed Doctor Ormus.

  ‘And yet, I see no cause to give up hope entirely. I trust that your knowledge of medicine is still as prodigious as ever it was?’

  ‘I flatter myself that it is. Although of late I have concerned myself chiefly with the physical sciences, I have taken care not to neglect the study of other disciplines.’

  ‘Then I can leave Shadrack in your capable hands?’

  ‘It would be best that you do, Your Grace. Aside from Peregrine Smith, I believe I am the only person in this land to possess a working knowledge of orgone energy. And furthermore, I have in my basement an orgone generator which was constructed by myself and Smith shortly before his alleged death.’

  ‘Does it work?’

  ‘I really don’t know. I’ve only ever tried it on mushrooms.’

  ‘Mushrooms?’

  ‘The giant ones in the Pleasure Garden are the results of one of my experiments. It seems that orgone accelerates the growth of plants. My main worry is that it could have the same effect on humans.’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘From the little I understand of the subject, I would say probably not. But I can’t be sure.’ Ormus glanced briefly at Shadrack. His eyes took in only general details of the youth’s frame and bearing. He could not bring himself to focus on the face. ‘I shall do what I can for him, Your Grace. If my machine works, I believe that the best course would be to subject him to further doses of orgone in the hope that it will speed up his healing processes. Who knows? Maybe a complete regeneration is not out of the question.’

  ‘Do you think that possible?’

  ‘I think the process has already begun, Your Grace. For if what the Albatross told you is true, his face - indeed his whole body - must have been burnt away almost beyond recognition. And yet he now has relatively few signs of disfigurement.

  ‘I cannot promise anything, but I do hold out a great deal of hope.’

  Lisa ran a hand through her hair, swayed as if she was about to faint. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Whatever you can do for him - ’

  ‘The problem now,’ said Doctor Ormus, ‘is to find a safe place in which to carry out the treatment. Castle Ormus is quite out of the question. The police have it under constant surveillance.’

  ‘Not such a problem,’ said the Mock Turtle. ‘You forget that a very good facility exists close by.’

  Doctor Ormus shook his head. ‘That’s something I could never forget. But when I discovered the uses to which it was put by Peregrine Smith, I swore I would never go there again.’

  ‘Do you have an alternative, Doctor?’

  Ormus hesitated. Whatever his personal feelings, he owed it to Shadrack to treat him as soon as possible. ‘No. I suppose not.’

  ‘Good,’ said the Duchess. ‘When can you start?’

  ‘Not immediately. After all these years of disuse, the place is going to be a mess. Also, I have to find a way of transporting my orgone generator from Castle Ormus without attracting any attention. That won’t be easy. It’s a fairly large piece of apparatus.’

  ‘First thing’s first,’ said the Duchess. ‘We’ll deal with the generator in the morning. In the meantime, let’s see about cleaning up your laboratory.’

  ‘It will be quite a task, Your Grace.’

  ‘I think not, Doctor. Many hands make light work.’ So saying, the Duchess of Langerhans opened a drawer and produced a copper hand bell. ‘Come, my angels!’ she called, shaking the bell into urgent life. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are. The time has come to leave the shadows and once more face the light of reality.’

  It was the Priestess calling to the faithful, the lion to the jungle, the sea bird to the sea. Her voice was strong and commanding. On wings of regality, it flew into the surrounding tunnels like an iron butterfly in search of the sun.

  And it was answered.

  They slouched from the tunnels, faces as bland as Muzak, feet scraping on stone. There was no poetry to their movements, no grace or vitality. A dozen teenagers dressed in jeans, T-shirts and orange headbands. They wore make-up. Brutal lipstick that varied from black to purple. Heavy eye shadow that accentuated the unwholesome aspects of their features. It was hard to tell male from female, but the March Hare judged it to be roughly an even split.

  As they draw near, a musty scent reminiscent of stale cinnamon disclosed the nature of their affliction. The March Hare had only once before met a buzz addict, but the smell was unforgettable.

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Julie.

  ‘Buzzniks,’ said the March Hare. ‘The most authentic form of human lowlife ever known.’

  The Duchess rose to her feet. Ash dropped from the joint in her mouth and fell down the front of her dress. She spread her arms and beamed warmly at the buzzniks as they gathered around her desk. ‘You dear, delicious dregs,’ she enthused. ‘What rough diamonds you are! The sediment - the very sediment I say! - of our society.’

  ‘I hope they’re as docile as they look,’ said Julie, who was standing between the buzzniks and the desk.

  ‘Cute, aren’t they?’ said the Mock Turtle sardonically.

  ‘Did someone ask if they were docile?’ asked the Duchess. ‘Of course they’re docile! They’re as gentle as lambs gamboling in a spring meadow. There’s not one of them - not one single one of them - who would wish harm to anybody. Saints! That’s what they are. Saints!’

  Julie did not look convinced. ‘They’re on drugs, aren’t they?’

  ‘On drugs and as high as fresh manure, my dear.’

  ‘But harmless,’ added the Mock Turtle.

  ‘Oh, very harmless,’ agreed the Duchess. ‘Very harmless and terribly misunderstood. Just look at the poor sweet darlings. Can you not see the pain in their eyes? Can you not read in their faces the tragic circumstances which have brought t
hem this low?

  ‘If they had ever been presented with one single chance to escape their awful fate, do you not think they would have taken it? Judge not, my child, lest you be judged also.’

  ‘I’m not judging,’ said Julie. ‘Honestly, I’m not.’

  The March Hare noticed a slight stirring amongst the buzzniks. One by one, they seemed to have become aware of Lisa’s presence and were reacting to it in an extraordinary way. She stood behind them, away from Shadrack, and she stood quite still with her hands by her sides, her legs spaced lightly apart. Murmuring an unintelligible incantation, the buzzniks turned slowly towards her and bowed their heads as if in prayer.

  The murmuring stopped.

  There was almost total silence in the chamber, broken only by the laboured breathing of the buzzniks and the sound of dripping water. Looking at the floor, the March Hare found fresh significance in the symbols and pentacles that radiated from its centre. The buzzniks were revering Lisa.

  Curiouser and curiouser, he told himself, though he was sure he knew what was going on. This was the Duchess of Langerhans’ way of controlling the buzzniks. She had engineered a religion for them in order that their miserable lives contained at least some shred of purpose, some reason for them to carry on.

  Raising her head, Lisa crossed her arms over her chest and closed her eyes. She uttered a few words of gibberish, and then nodded twice. This must have signified the end of the ritual, because the buzzniks turned away from her and looked instead at the Duchess.

  Julie and the March Hare exchanged uncertain glances. They were united in the knowledge that they alone found the present situation bizarre. The Duchess, the Doctor and the Mock Turtle showed no sign of even noticing the ceremony.

  Rather guiltily the March Hare realised he had left Shadrack out of the equation.

  I no longer think of him as human, he admitted to himself. I don’t expect him to have thoughts or feelings or to be aware of what’s going on.

  The Duchess cut into his thoughts with a clap of her hands. ‘Are we all set then?’ she asked, her voice all authority and jolly hockey sticks. ‘We have a long night ahead of us, so let’s be started at once! There’s work to be done, my angels. Do you hear? Work!’