The Demon Collector

by Jon Mayhew

  The Demon Collector

  Jon Mayhew

  For Branwell Johnson,

  who read my earliest ace adventures

  Contents

  Proverb

  Part the First

  Proverb

  Chapter One

  Proverb

  Chapter Two

  Proverb

  Chapter Three

  Proverb

  Chapter Four

  Proverb

  Chapter Five

  Proverb

  Chapter Six

  Proverb

  Chapter Seven

  Proverb

  Chapter Eight

  Proverb

  Chapter Nine

  Proverb

  Chapter Ten

  Proverb

  Chapter Eleven

  Proverb

  Chapter Twelve

  Proverb

  Chapter Thirteen

  Proverb

  Chapter Fourteen

  Proverb

  Chapter Fifteen

  Proverb

  Chapter Sixteen

  Proverb

  Chapter Seventeen

  Proverb

  Chapter Eighteen

  Proverb

  Chapter Nineteen

  Proverb

  Chapter Twenty

  Proverb

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Proverb

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Proverb

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Proverb

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Proverb

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Part the Second

  Proverb

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Proverb

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Proverb

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Proverb

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Proverb

  Chapter Thirty

  Proverb

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Proverb

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Proverb

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Proverb

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Proverb

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Proverb

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  Also by Jon Mayhew

  Copyright Page

  Mortlock

  Moloch, horrid king besmeared with blood

  Of human sacrifice, and parents’ tears,

  Though for the noise of drums and timbrels loud

  Their children’s cries unheard, passed through fire

  To his grim idol.

  Paradise Lost, John Milton

  Part the First

  London,

  1854

  ‘Now answer me these questions three,

  Or you shall surely go with me.

  Now answer me these questions six,

  Or you shall surely be Old Nick’s.

  Now answer me these questions nine,

  Or you shall surely all be mine.’

  ‘Riddles Wisely Expounded’, traditional folk ballad

  Chapter One

  Riddles

  Edgy Taylor screwed his eyes shut and felt his stomach churn as the carriage wheels crunched over the boy’s body. The trap rattled round the corner, its pony wide-eyed, foaming at the mouth. The young girl driving had lost the reins and leaned perilously out, trying to grab them as they flicked and trailed along the street. The horse screamed as its iron-clad hooves rolled the boy in the mud and bounced his skull on the hard cobbles.

  Edgy’s little white terrier, Henry, gave a yap of alarm. The boy had been looking over his shoulder and had run blind into the path of the trap. But there could be no mistaking the expression on his face when he turned back.

  Terror.

  Someone had been chasing him.

  The trap clattered on down the street, out of control. Edgy caught a last glimpse of the ashen-faced driver and then it was gone.

  Folk in the street stood motionless, staring at the groaning, twisted body. Carriages rattled distantly in other streets but silence froze this one. One or two onlookers peered cautiously, shook their heads, then broke the spell, pulling their hats or bonnets down, fixing their eyes firmly on the pavement and hurrying on. Henry gave a whine.

  Edgy ran forward and cradled the boy, lifting him out of the filth that coated the street. Water leached up Edgy’s trouser legs, freezing his bottom half.

  The boy looked much the same age as Edgy – thirteen, maybe fourteen. Blood matted his curly brown hair and smeared his face. Well-dressed, Edgy thought. The quality of the boy’s suit shone through the muck and dirt that now caked it. Thick material, hand-stitched, neatly crafted bone buttons. His eyes flickered and he gave a strangled gasp.

  ‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Edgy said, trying to sound reassuring.

  The boy gave a wet, gargling choke and glanced down at his slowly opening fist. A triangle of bone lay in his palm. The boy lifted his hand, offering it to Edgy.

  ‘You want me to take it?’ Edgy asked, frowning at the scrap.

  ‘Keep it safe . . . Salomé . . . Moloch . . . fire . . . death . . .’ the boy croaked. ‘Don’t . . . let anyone . . .’

  Edgy took it from his slick palm. ‘I’ll get some help and . . .’

  But the boy shook his head, his eyes widening as he looked over Edgy’s shoulder. His back arched and his face contorted, then he fell slack, his head lolling.

  ‘Someone help!’ Edgy shouted, but people were quickly about their business. Henry gave a snarl.

  ‘Problem, young man?’ a voice chimed behind him.

  Stuffing the fragment into his coat pocket, Edgy glanced over his shoulder. Still crouched down, the first thing he noticed was her shoes.

  Pointed. Shining. Black.

  How was that possible? Even on a frosty winter evening, the mud from the road splattered everyone, lady or commoner. Henry bared his teeth and crushed his body against Edgy.

  Edgy’s eyes tracked up from the unstained hem of her long black dress. Embroidery and lace. Waist sucked in at the middle. A fine chin, her china skin and red lips smiling at him. Black hair raked into a tight bun. And those eyes, as green as envy.

  Edgy nodded to the boy in his arms. ‘Ran under a trap. Didn’t stand a chance, ma’am.’

  ‘No,’ she said, her smile slipping into an imperfect grimace for a second. ‘He didn’t.’

  Edgy knelt in the busy street, twitching under the woman’s steady gaze. ‘I dunno what to do, ma’am,’ he said, nodding to the body again. ‘Can you help?’

  The woman looked puzzled for a moment and then gave a short laugh. Edgy didn’t like her light manner – after all, this poor lad had just been killed. It was horrible.

  ‘Oh, him,’ she said, wrinkling her nose and wafting a dismissive lace glove. ‘Just drag him to the gutter. They’ll collect him soon enough.’

  ‘But . . .’ Edgy said, dumbfounded. The cold pinched at his damp legs. ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Well, you can’t sit in the street all evening, can you? And are you going to bury him yourself?’ Her eyebrows formed a perfect arch.

  Edgy gritted his teeth. She spoke as if he were an idiot. Henry whimpered and slid behind Edgy.

  ‘I don’t s’pose I am, ma’am, but –’ Edgy began.

  ‘What do they call you?’ the lady cut in. ‘Your name. What is it?’ Her tone was light but there was a steeliness to it.

  ‘Edgy, ma’am. Edgy Taylor,’ he replied.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, as if confirming his answer. Her head tilted to one side. ‘Do you know how old you are, Edgy?’

  ‘Well, I’m not rightly sure,’ he muttered. ‘Twelve, thirteen perhaps?’


  ‘Nearly thirteen. My, my, how time flies. It’s your birthday soon. Did you know that?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’ Edgy gave a shake of his head. What was she on about? How could she know when his birthday was when even he didn’t?

  ‘February the fourteenth. A very significant day,’ she giggled and put a lace-gloved hand to her mouth.

  ‘I never knew that was my birthday, ma’am,’ Edgy said. Best to humour her.

  ‘And what do you do for a living, Edgy?’ She beamed down at him, twirling the handle of her umbrella in her hand.

  ‘I’m a prime collector, ma’am,’ Edgy muttered. He could feel his cheeks burning as she stared at him. Into him.

  ‘A prime collector?’ She raised her eyebrows again.

  ‘I collect dog sh— droppings, ma’am.’ Even over the stink of the sludge Edgy knelt in, her perfume caressed his face. ‘I sell it to the tanners, ma’am. They use it to cure the hides into leather. They mix it in a big vat, stick the animal skins in it . . .’

  She raised a delicate hand. ‘You collect dog droppings?’ A solitary wrinkle furrowed her perfect forehead. ‘This world gets more hellish every day.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Edgy’s eyes scanned the cobblestones.

  ‘Riddle me this, Edgy Taylor,’ said the lady, bringing her face close to his. The scent of violets and rose water made his head swim. ‘What goes up a mountain and down a mountain but never moves?’

  ‘Sorry?’ He frowned, shaking his head.

  ‘It’s a riddle, silly. What goes up a mountain and down a mountain but never moves?’

  ‘A riddle?’ Edgy knew what it was and he knew the answer. He just hadn’t expected some toff to riddle him while he held a dead body in his arms. Talon delighted in beating the answers to riddles into him. ‘A path. A path goes up and down a mountain but never moves!’ A glow of guilty pride warmed him in spite of the cold and the dead boy. At least he was good at something.

  ‘Very good,’ the lady nodded, beaming. ‘And what is it that everyone is born with, some die with, but most die without?’

  ‘This is stupid,’ Edgy spat and shuffled into a squat.

  ‘Come on, come on.’ She clicked her dainty fingers. ‘What is it that everyone is born with, some die with, but most die without?’ The lady straightened up, waiting for the answer. Her eyes grew wide and she flashed a row of straight, white teeth.

  ‘I dunno, ma’am.’ He couldn’t think, what with the cold and the strangeness of the situation. ‘A nose?’

  ‘You’re going to have to do better than that.’ Her voice became flat, disappointment pulled at the corners of her mouth. ‘And remember, it’s dangerous to give your name out to any old stranger, Edgy Taylor. You’re mine now by rights but I’ll let you run free for a while longer. It won’t be long now. See if you can find out the answer. Good day.’

  She swept away into the hurrying crowds.

  ‘Now what was she on about, Henry?’ Edgy muttered, staring after her. Henry gave a whine.

  All that talk of riddles and birthdays made him feel nervous. Riddles always reminded him of Talon. Talon. Edgy shuddered. A devil of a man. Talon took all the muck he collected. Gave him a roof, a crust and a good kicking in return. Everybody else thought he was a decent man, but Edgy knew his true nature.

  A rattling of wheels snapped him back to reality as a black funeral carriage rolled up behind Edgy. A hawk-featured undertaker grinned down on him from the driver’s seat.

  ‘You keepin’ ’im warm, son?’ he laughed, clambering down from the carriage like a huge thin-legged spider.

  ‘Saw ’im go,’ Edgy said and laid the broken body down gently. He shivered and twitched his head as he stood up. ‘Kind of felt sorry for ’im.’

  ‘Ah well, I reckon I’ll take ’im. Dressed smart. Looks like he worked for rich folks. Might feel guilty and pay for a modest funeral,’ he sniffed, tapping his foot against the dead boy’s thigh as if he were assessing a second-hand cart. ‘Can always sell his clothes at the least.’ He hefted the body up and dumped it into a coffin on the back of the carriage.

  ‘That’s ’orrible.’ Edgy stared at his scuffed boots.

  ‘That’s life, mate,’ the undertaker said, slamming the lid shut on the box, ‘and death.’ He clambered back on to the carriage and gave Edgy a nod. ‘Evenin’.’

  Edgy watched the hearse vanish into the twilight. Was that how it ended? Limp and lifeless on the back of a cart?

  He stared down for a second. A wobbly reflection peered back at him from a shimmering puddle. It was hard to tell if his face was brown from years of outdoor life or from the muck that smeared it. The tight mouth and permanent frown line between his thick eyebrows gave him a worried, suspicious kind of look. No wonder they’d called him Edgy. Not a handsome chap, that’s for sure, with his thick mop of black hair. The reflection shivered in the scummy water, twitched and licked its narrow lips.

  Henry gave a grumbling whine and stretched, pressing his cheek against Edgy’s calf. Edgy stroked the fur, grey from life on the streets, the brown and black patches faded.

  ‘That’s life, Henry, old chap,’ Edgy said, scratching behind the dog’s ear. ‘Apparently. Come on then. Let’s go and see what delights Mr Talon has in store for us tonight.’

  He shook himself and stamped on his reflection; water had soaked through the holes in his boots ages ago.

  Folks of all classes now pulled their hats – toppers or flat caps – low and turned their collars against the cold fog that drifted up from the river to fill the night. The fog muffled everything, turning passers-by into indistinct shapes. The shouts and cries from the alleys seemed closer somehow.

  Images of the accident and the strange woman turned over in Edgy’s mind. The sliver of bone felt warm in his pocket as he flipped it between his fingers. Why did the boy want him to take it? And what had he said? It sounded like gibberish to Edgy.

  A huge square shadow parted the mist, blocking Edgy’s path. He skipped sideways into the gutter to avoid being squashed. It was a cage on wheels. As the cage trundled past in the swirling fog, Edgy could make out a fox curled in one corner. A rabbit nestled close to it and a hawk rocked on a perch above them. Edgy read the sign above the cage: Happy Families – The Lion Lies down with the Lamb.

  Hardly a lion, Edgy thought, looking at the mangy fox huddled in the filthy straw. He’d seen these street attractions before – animals that normally devoured each other caged and trained to live in peace. The rich kids loved them. Edgy would watch them pulling their mothers, fathers or nannies over to the cage, begging for a farthing to see the animals. He’d watched the indulgent smiles of the parents with a sting of envy.

  Happy Families. Edgy sighed. A mother or father. That’d be nice. Anyone who cared, really. Anyone but Talon.

  Edgy prayed Talon would be asleep or blind drunk tonight. Or better still, dead.

  Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

  Traditional proverb

  Chapter Two

  A Dangerous Stranger

  What is it that everyone is born with, some die with, but most die without? The lady’s riddle teased Edgy as he dodged the ghostly figures that emerged from the mist. He shivered and glanced around. For a moment, he had the strangest notion he was being followed.

  People cursed and side-stepped Edgy as he shuffled his way across London Bridge. Nothing like carrying a sackful of dog muck to clear your way, he thought, allowing himself a humourless grin. His face dropped as he turned a corner and the sulphurous reek of the tanning yards clogged his nostrils worse than the stink of the Thames or the streets.

  This whole part of the south bank smelt foul. Here jam makers boiled vats of sugar and fruit in crumbling workshops next to slaughterhouses and tanning yards that spewed yellow sulphurous clouds, thickening the already choking fog. The smell was a sickening mixture of sweet quince jam, meat, offal and tanning agents, and it drifted from the workshops and yards whose blackened brick walls loome
d over Edgy.

  A narrow alley took Edgy away from the hustle of the streets and into a shadowy maze that twisted and turned. Rough, broken-toothed men propped up crumbling walls and eyed him as he passed. He paid them no heed. There weren’t many folks who would roll him in the mud to steal what he was carrying. Besides, he was fast on his feet if he needed to run.

  Edgy ducked into a small yard. His shoulder ached with the weight of the bag, full and heavy. He dragged it over his head, twisting his face away from the contents. Nobody wants ten pounds of dog muck tipped over themselves. He heard the filth slither from his bag and slip into a metal vat set in the ground. It bubbled and mixed with the rest of the foul concoction. The smell caught the back of his throat. He had never got used to it. Tomorrow he would be knee deep in the cocktail of excrement and urine that he’d collected from across the city, treading the raw hides into it to soften them. Something else to look forward to.

  The tannery building itself rose above the yard some three storeys. The red-brick front was dotted with small windows and hatches with pulleys and winches for bringing goods up to higher floors. The huge oak doors stood slightly open.

  Abandon hope, all ye who enter here, Edgy thought. This was where he met the sharp end of Talon’s tongue and the hard end of his boot. Why not run away? The thought occurred to Edgy every day. But where to? Into the darkness of the London streets to have his throat slit? Into the Thames to mudlark and be drowned? There was always the workhouse. Edgy had seen the pale, grey-faced children through the bars. Why would he go there to cough his final hours away as he died of some wasting disease? And what would become of poor Henry? No. At least they were dry and warm among the curing vats.

  Edgy scurried through the wooden doors. Henry scampered close to him, the sound of his clicking claws echoing back down from the shadows of the workshop’s high-vaulted ceiling. Wet hides dripped and festered on the ropes that stretched between the building’s slimy walls. And there, among the piles of skin and hoof and bone, sat Talon, bottle in hand, glowering.

  It was trouble, Edgy knew in an instant.

  Edgy tried not to look at him. He knew what he would see. Talon’s eyes burning like coals deep in his twisted face. Skin crimson and bubbling like lava. Horns sprouting from his head.