The Somnambulist: A Novel

by Jonathan Barnes

  “I graduated with a good degree and found, much to my astonishment, that I had a way with figures. I did as I’d been told and established the company according to Mr. Coleridge’s instructions. But I could muster little interest in Pantisocracy, and whilst the firm ostensibly remained loyal to his intentions, I was able to make a good deal of money over the years by investing in property and playing the markets. At the peak of our success, I employed nearly a hundred staff and enjoyed considerable profits.”

  “You betrayed the ideals of your benefactor for the sake of money.”

  Love seemed upset. “Harsh words, Mr. Moon. Very harsh. You have to understand that the old man was very ill when he died. Some might say not quite in his right mind. I did what I was able with my inheritance and doubled it — doubled it dozens of times over. I’m not a selfish or avaricious man. I was generous with our earnings. There was a time when I was one of the most prominent philanthropists in London. I did feel guilty. But a few thousand a year will help a man forget his duty.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Five years ago, the golden times had passed. I’d got too old to run the company, and, like me, it had grown somewhat decrepit. None of my boys showed any real interest in succeeding me, and I was at my wits’ end as to what to do when I was approached by a consortium. They were men of God, they said, representatives of an organization called the Church of the Summer Kingdom. I see you recognize the name. So did I, as it happens, since I had donated money to their cause on more than one occasion. Their names were most improbable — Donald McDonald and the Reverend Doctor Tan. They said they were devotees of Mr. Coleridge, said they venerated the man and were almost embarrassing in their effusive deference to me — one of the last men alive, they said, who had actually known the poet personally. They knew all about the will, about the old man’s plans for the company, and they made me an offer. They promised to keep the firm operating exactly as it was, to retain all my staff and instate me as Chairman Emeritus on the one condition that we return to Coleridge’s original intentions. They actually planned in the fullness of time to live as Pantisocrats. It was an old man’s weakness and no doubt you’ll think me foolish, but I took them at their word. I see now that they were silver-tongued rogues, but I had wearied of the place and I felt guilty, so I allowed them some measure of power. It seemed the right thing to do.”

  “Let me guess,” Moon said. “The church took absolute control of the company and ousted you.”

  “They threw me out onto the street. I thought the only path left to me was one of meditation and repentance. And so you find me like this, an unsuccessful anchorite.”

  “Could you not appeal? Surely the company still belonged to you?”

  “They had clever lawyers. In my stupidity I had signed documents which gave them complete control. I admit it — I was thoroughly gulled. Cuckoos, Mr. Moon. Cuckoos in the nest. And my boys were under their spell. I was told they took part in my downfall, though I can’t bring myself to believe it. Can you blame me for hiding myself here?” He reached again for the whisky bottle. And drained it dry.

  “Courage, Mr. Love. What changes did they make in the firm? This McDonald, this Reverend Tan?”

  “Those are not their real names, are they?” Love asked, rather sadly.

  “Aliases, I’m sure of it. But tell me — what happened to Love, Love, Love and Love?”

  “From the start, they went against their word. They fired most of my staff and brought in their own men — and women, if you can credit it. Oh, they were a queer lot and no mistake. Peculiar creatures, all of them. Some looked like they’d been plucked straight from the gutter. Knowing Tan, I wouldn’t even put that past him. Then they started building. Underground. Lodgings, they said, for the staff. By the time I left, most of them were living there. Names, too. They began to frown on names, of all things, starting insisting everyone take a number. Sinister. Sinister and most unchristian. I only wish I might have stopped it.”

  “I have an associate on the inside at the firm and it would seem that since your departure matters have got very much worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “The place sounds more like a commune than a business. They’ve all been numbered. Branded like cattle. They seem to be waiting for something. Like an army before a battle, so I hear. Tell me, Mr. Love — what are they planning?”

  Love seemed exhausted by the effort of talking for so long and the drink had finally begun to work upon him. He slumped back, confused. “I’m not entirely certain. Once, in his cups, Tan made insinuations about his real plans. The old man would not have approved. You can take my word on that. I may not have done as he wished but I would never go so far as the church. Something terrible is afoot. But tell me, who is this ally of yours inside the firm?”

  “My sister.”

  “Your sister?” Appalled, Love struggled to his feet only to lose his balance and collapse onto the ground. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

  “Explain.”

  Love shook his head. “How could you send your own sister in there? You’ll have to get her out immediately. She’s in terrible danger.”

  “Danger?”

  “They have a way of… turning you. They’re extremely persuasive. She’s not safe. You must fetch her at once.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Ho now, gentlemen. I shall wait for you here.”

  Moon stood up and gestured for the Somnambulist to join him. “We’ll come back.”

  “Please go. I couldn’t bear it if something awful happened.” Love’s speech had become slurred and when he’d finished speaking he rolled slowly onto his back, like a turtle, close to passing out.

  Moon and the Somnambulist left him there, and at something approaching a run they headed back toward the old city and the black gates of Love.

  The Archivist was filing a series of reports on the notorious Finchley Cannibal of 1864 and thinking about retiring early for the night when she was disturbed by a sudden sound: the telltale clump and clatter of visitors feeling their way into the gloom of the Stacks.

  “Archivist?” The voice was familiar.

  “Mr. Skimpole? Is that you?”

  More graceless sound and fury. Strange. This one was usually so quiet, practically feline in his stealth. “It’s me.”

  “You have someone with you?”

  “My son,” the voice admitted.

  The Archivist was annoyed. “You know the rules. Visitors not admitted under any circumstances. I might also add that it’s very late and that you haven’t made an appointment.”

  “I need your help.”

  Something was different about his voice. There was a hoarse quality to it, a strained sound and a huskiness which had never been there before.

  “My apologies. I may have put your life in danger even coming here.”

  “You’re not making sense, Mr. Skimpole.”

  “The Directorate is in danger. Dedlock and I… We’re targets. Someone’s put a killer on our trail. An assassin they call the Mongoose.”

  The old woman tried not to smile.

  “Worst of all, I’m… I’m not feeling my best. I should have seen you yesterday. But I was so very tired.”

  “How can I help?” the Archivist asked finally, sensing the true seriousness of the situation.

  “Desperate measures, I fear. I need to contact them.”

  “Who?”

  “I shan’t speak their names here, but you know who I mean.”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “I need the Directory.”

  “Things are really that bad?”

  “Worse.”

  The Archivist tried to warn him. “You’re not the first to have made this mistake, Mr. Skimpole. Those creatures… They say they are for hire. Offer their services as mercenaries or killers or solvers of problems. But you won’t be able to control them. And you’ll never be able to afford their fee.”

  “I’ve heard they carry out certain
worthy tasks for free.”

  “Oh, Skimpole. Nothing is for free. And the cost of hiring them is always far too great.”

  “I’m begging you.”

  “They’re impossibly dangerous, Mr. Skimpole. They’re agents of chaos and destruction. No man has ever employed them and escaped unscathed.”

  Someone coughed. The child.

  “Please,” Skimpole pleaded. “My son is not well.”

  The old woman sighed. “Come with me.” She moved away into the permanent dusk of the Stacks. “I keep it locked up. It’s on the Home Office’s forbidden list, you know. A black book. I my opinion, even here it’s dangerous.” She reached a glass-fronted cabinet, unlocked it with the key she kept hung about her neck and took out a slim, leather-bound book. “I had hoped never to touch this again.”

  Skimpole grabbed it from her eagerly. “I’m grateful.”

  “All you need is there. But be careful. They will lie and do their best to trick you. Whatever you wish to ask of them, they will twist it to their advantage.”

  But her warning fell on deaf ears. The albino and his son hurried away, stumbled noisily up the steps and out of the Stacks. As the Archivist locked the cabinet she felt an icy pang of certainty that she had just spoken to Mr. Skimpole for the last time.

  Vast, grand and marble-floored, the foyer of Love, Love, Love and Love was approximately the size and shape of a ballroom filled with echoes and empty space. An elaborate design was set into the center of the floor — Moon and the Somnambulist lacked the perspective to appreciate it, but had they viewed it from a better vantage point, from the ubiquitous, hypothetical bird’s eye, they would have recognized the pattern immediately: styled in marble and stone, a black five-petaled flower. On the far side of the room, otherwise deserted and devoid of the whirling masses for which it had been intended, a small, dark pinprick of a man sat upright behind his desk.

  The receptionist looked up as they walked in and gave them only the briefest of glances before dismissing them with that uninterested sneer which typifies his breed. Moon and the Somnambulist walked toward him, the tap-tap of their shoes ringing out accusingly like gunfire. The receptionist tutted audibly.

  “My name is Edward Moon.”

  “Really?” the man asked, polite — scrupulously so — but somehow managing to convey an utter contempt for anyone who had ever stood on the wrong side of his desk.

  “I wish to see a member of your staff.”

  “Oh?” The incredulity of the man’s tone suggested that Moon had asked for an audience at the Vatican. “Does sir have an appointment?”

  “I do not.”

  “Then I’m afraid I am quite unable to help you.”

  “It’s my sister—”

  “Here at Love, sir, one needs an appointment even to visit one’s sister.” All this delivered in the same infuriatingly cool, automaton tone — impossibly bland but with just the barest hint of amusement.

  Moon persisted. “Can I make an appointment?”

  “Of course, sir.” With a crisp flourish, the man produced a sheet of foolscap. “If sir would be so kind as to complete this form… I should add that no one will be available to see you until next Wednesday at the earliest.” He leant forward as if about to confide some great secret. “This is our busiest time of the year.”

  Moon was beginning to sound agitated. “I need to see her today. Her name is Charlotte Moon.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, sir. We’ve no one here of that name.”

  “I know she works here, man. Don’t be obstructive.”

  “I assure you, sir, I have never heard the name before in my life and I am intimately acquainted with all nine hundred and ninety-eight of my colleagues. Beside, as you may be aware, here at Love, Love, Love and Love we have dispensed with the cumbersome necessity of surnames. Here we all share the same glorious appellation. I myself am Love two hundred and forty-five. Though I permit my closest intimates to call me 245.”

  “My sister is Love nine hundred and ninety-nine.”

  The receptionist smiled. “Sir must be mistaken. Love nine hundred and ninety-nine is a writer of sentimental dramas for the stage, formerly known as “Squib’ Wilson.”

  “Were you born this aggravating or did you learn it here?”

  “I like to think a little of both.”

  “Where’s my sister? I’m quite prepared to beat it out of you.”

  Love 245 looked pained. “There’s no need for sir to lower himself to threats. I have only to call for attention and a dozen of my colleagues will leap to my aid. You’ll be charged and prosecuted for trespass and threatening an employee. Consequently, we’ll be quite within our legal rights to take punitive action. The last man who asked the wrong questions at my desk spent nine months in a mental hospital. Even now he’s convinced his mother’s Labrador plots to kill him.”

  “I wish to see my sister.”

  “Sir must be mistaken. Sir’s sister is not here.”

  “Is she downstairs, is that it? In those catacombs you’ve got down there?”

  The receptionist looked at the Somnambulist. “Is your friend quite well?”

  The giant glared back.

  “One hesitates to suggest such a thing, of course, but one has to ask — has sir been drinking?”

  With an enormous effort of will, Moon swallowed his rage and turned back toward the door. “I shall return,” he called out as he walked away. “I swear I’ll uncover what’s going on here.”

  “Goodbye, sir. So sorry I wasn’t able to be more helpful.”

  As Moon and the Somnambulist reached the exit, a man walked in from the street, shoving past them in his haste to reach reception. Shiny and smart, a briefcase clutched in one hand, he resembled a black beetle forced upright and dressed by Savile Row. Every inch the Love employee — but not, as it happened, a stranger.

  Moon shouted his name. “Speight!”

  The man turned back to reveal a face no longer unkempt but clean-shaven, even handsome, the grime of the doorstep wiped away. He stared at the conjuror and the giant as though they were a couple of acquaintances he hadn’t seen for years, their faces faintly familiar but their names impossible to recall. “Can I help you?”

  “I shouldn’t trouble yourself, sir,” muttered the receptionist.

  “No trouble.”

  “Speight!” Moon cried again. “It is you.”

  The man walked back toward them. “Mr Moon, isn’t it? And the Somnambulist.”

  “Surely you remember us.”

  “I’d rather you call me nine hundred and three,” Speight said flatly.

  “I prefer Speight.”

  “Then we have an impasse.”

  The Somnambulist scribbled on his board.

  WHY YOU HERE

  “I’m working,” the man said tersely. “This is a busy time for the corporation.”

  “So I’m told. But what I don’t understand is why.”

  “Good day, gentlemen. Pleasant though it is to stand here and chatter, I’m afraid I am required elsewhere.”

  “Tell me what you’re planning.”

  “Be careful,” he hissed, his blank face momentarily replaced by something approximating the Speight of old. “A great tide is about to break upon the city. Stand aside, sir. Or be drowned.” And with this, the ex-tramp strode away, vanishing into the depths of the building.

  Moon walked out into the street, utterly bemused by what had just taken place.

  WHAT NOW

  “Back to Ned. There are questions I need answered. After that… You’ve no objection to breaking the law, I take it?”

  The Somnambulist shook his head.

  “Well, then. Tonight we break into Love.”

  Something had changed when they arrived back at Ned Love’s hermitage. Everything seemed the same — the windows were still boarded up, the place tightly sealed, locked and barred — but with one notable exception: the front door gaped wide open.

  “I suppose he might have gone
out,” Moon said doubtfully.

  The Somnambulist shot him a cynical look and pushed past into the house. If there was to be danger, the giant always insisted on being the first to face it.

  The place seemed undisturbed at first, but as they moved back along the corridor, Moon felt a growing conviction that something was not as it ought to be.

  Consequently, neither man was surprised when they found the body.

  Poor Ned Love, an empty whisky bottle in his hand, lay slumped against the wall, crooked, ugly and unnatural in death. Moon thought he heard movement when he entered the room. It was only later he realized that this almost certainly denoted the scurrying departure of those rats and other vermin which had come already to nibble on the corpse.

  “Mr. Love?” Moon crouched down beside the body. “Ned?” For tradition’s sake he checked the body’s pulse.

  DEAD

  “Afraid so.”

  FROTTLED

  Moon tried hard not to sound impressed. “How can you tell?”

  The Somnambulist gestured toward the pinkish marks at the man’s throat, fading but still visible.

  “Wouldn’t have been difficult given the amount he’d drunk. Evidently he said too much.”

  LOVE

  “I’d put money on it.”

  Leaving poor Ned where he lay, they strode back out into the open air. “This is it,” said Moon once they were outside, perversely sounding almost cheerful. “Time for the end-game.”