The Somnambulist: A Novel

by Jonathan Barnes

  “Confused you, did it, sir?”

  “Baboozled, were we? All of a fluster?”

  Skimpole struggled to understand. “It’s blank, apart from the page which had this address on it.”

  “Devilish tricky thing, that book,” Hawker said, with faux gravitas.

  Boon agreed. “Can’t let it out of your sight, sir. Heaven knows what mischief it gets up to when we’re not around.”

  “I don’t understand,” Skimpole said weakly.

  “All you needed was an address,” Boon said. “We got your telegram and hey presto, here we are. In this day and age there’s no need for anything more complicated.”

  Hawker brought out a bright, green apple, rubbed it against the lapel of his blazer and took a big, crunchy bite. “Course, in other times and places it might have looked different. Might have been stuffed with funny symbols and sigils and squiggles and suchlike.”

  “Or rows and rows of numbers,” Boon added helpfully.

  “Do you always…” Skimpole whispered. “Do you always look like this?”

  “I’ve always looked like this, haven’t I, Boon?”

  “More’s the pity. You’re the ugliest man in the first fifteen.”

  “Bosh, tiffle and pish.” Hawker punched Boon playfully on his shoulder and the little man reciprocated in kind.

  “Please,” Skimpole said, “we haven’t much time.” He coughed again.

  “Nasty cough you’ve got there, sir.”

  “Hacking, sir. Positively grisly, if I might say so.”

  “You ought to get that looked at, sir. Go along to Matron and let her take a gander. Might get a chit for games.”

  “Please,” Skimpole muttered.

  “Quite right, sir,” Boon said.

  “Awfully sorry. Just horsing around,” Hawker added.

  “We might seem like a couple of young scamps to you,” Boon insisted, “but believe me, ask us to run an errand and we’ll do it better than any other boy in school. They didn’t make us Prefects for nothing. Spill the beans, Mr. Skimpole. We’re dying to know — what can we do for you?”

  Before Skimpole replied there was a pause in which he considered for the very last time the possibility of taking another path, making a different choice, a quieter, more mellow death. But he ignored the screaming of his conscience and pressed on. “There are men I want… removed,” he said. “I need you to murder them for me.”

  Thomas Cribb opened his eyes.

  By virtue of his curious existence, memory must have worked rather differently for him than it does for the rest of us. Presumably he was able to remember what was about to happen to him rather than what had already taken place. Assuming, of course, that you believe him.

  Whatever the truth, when he opened his eyes and saw where he was, he had no idea how he had got there. “There,” as it happened, was completely unfamiliar to him. A gloomy room, dank and airless, its walls peeling, sweaty and blistered.

  “Hello?” he said, not really expecting an answer. “Anyone there?”

  Nothing happened. Feeling foolish, he fell silent.

  Numbed by pain, cold and the journey, only now did it come to his attention that he was sitting upright, somehow stuck to a chair. Experimentally, he tried to move a leg.

  No good, of course — he was bound tight. His hands, too, were trussed to the chairs arms, rope cutting hard into his wrists, sensation fading from his extremities. Evidently he was being held captive and, strangely, he wasn’t altogether surprised by the fact — in the course of his long, long existence he had made innumerable enemies. He had a sensation of weightlessness, a woozy, floating feeling as though he had been removed from his life and was staring down at it from some great distance.

  He heard a thundering rumble, painfully loud and coming from somewhere nearby. A train? He couldn’t be sure.

  Suddenly he was aware of another presence. A match flared before him in the gloom, a lamp was lit and he saw exposed at last the grim dimensions of his cell. He wasn’t altogether certain he didn’t prefer it in the dark.

  A woman’s face, familiar but maddeningly nameless, swam in front of him. “Mr. Cribb,” it said. “Welcome to the Summer Kingdom.”

  He managed a defiant kind of mumble. “What do you want?”

  “We want to help you,” she said in a singsong voice. “We want to show you Love.”

  Cribb remembered. “You’re Charlotte Moon.”

  The face gave a sweet, seraphic smile. “You must be mistaken,” she said, still in that same hypnotic tone. “My name is Love.”

  It was then that Cribb heard himself scream. During that impossibly long night it was to be the first of many.

  Hawker and Boon — known collectively as the Prefects — had long been objects of terror in the city: implacable, remorseless purveyors of death and destruction to anyone foolish or unwary enough to cross their path. Nobody had ever suffered their ire and survived. Even criminals — the worst, most brutal and perverted recidivists the city had to offer — all were scared to death of those two men. The smallest rumor of a sighting set the underworld quivering as one.

  I should add that their notoriety was far from being restricted to London. Baba Abu, the infamous Bombay assassin of the last century, was said on one occasion to have vomited copiously at his dinner table at the mere mention of their names.

  It was two living legends, then, with whom Mr. Skimpole found himself confronted in the playground of Gammage’s School for Boys. By right, their appearance ought to have been comical — the albino should have had great difficulty keeping a straight face — and yet the emotion evoked upon encountering these curious men-children was not laughter but its polar opposite. There was something horribly, indescribably wrong about the pair of them. They seemed to exist a little outside reality, hovering an inch or two above the real world.

  Hawker chortled in agreement. “Topping.”

  During their long and highly successful career, the Prefects had encountered men and women who had seen fit to laugh at their speech patterns, to mock the unmistakable patois of the playground, their trademark idiolect. Needless to say, few of these would-be satirists were ever able to laugh again. Dribble, yes. A thin moan, perhaps. Blink their eyes once for yes and twice for no, without a doubt. But laugh? Never.

  Mr. Skimpole did not feel like cracking so much as a smile. His clothes were soaked with sweat, those parts of his body which were covered in lesions wept and itched abominably. “Please,” he said. “I’m in deadly earnest. I need you to kill two men.”

  “Wrong ’uns, are they, sir?”

  “Ne’er do wells?”

  “Bounders?”

  “Rotters?”

  “Cads?”

  “Give us their names, sir. Do.”

  “You understand that I do this not out of revenge,” Skimpole said carefully, “but only to protect my work.”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Say no more.”

  “Well, then.” Skimpole coughed painfully, at which Hawker and Boon tutted in noisy sympathy. “The Directorate is under attack. A man has been set on our trail. Ex-Okhrana. The best assassin they ever had. And the only real intelligence we have on him is his code name.”

  “Tell us, then, sir.”

  “Let the cat out of the bag.”

  “Spill the beans.”

  Skimpole swallowed hard. “The Mongoose.”

  Hawker let out a low whistle. “Coo!”

  “You’d like us to deal with him, would you, sir?” Boon asked.

  “Give him a dashed good slippering?”

  Skimpole nodded weakly.

  “You ought to be at home, sir.”

  “Tucked up in bed with a hot-water bottle and a steaming rum toddy.”

  “Wait,” Skimpole said. “There is something else.”

  “My my. You are in a bloodthirsty temper.”

  “The Directorate has an enemy in Whitehall.”

  “Shifty lot, these politicians.”


  “Nasty glints in their eyes.”

  “Never trust them, sir. Never.”

  “His name is Maurice Trotman. A man from the Ministry. He wants…” Skimpole sniffed. “He wants to close us down.”

  “Gosh.” Hawker sounded sympathetic. “Are you frightfully raw at the chap?”

  “Had words, did you, sir?” Boon asked.

  “Fisticuffs, were there?”

  “Can you do it?” Skimpole gasped. “Can you kill them?”

  “Deuced if I can’t see why not,” said Boon. “How about you, Hawker?”

  “Absolutely, old fruit. Point of fact, I’m looking forward to it.”

  “You’ve asked the right chaps, sir, coming to us. There’s none better in the sixth form.”

  “Boon’s an absolute brick in a scrap. Take it from me — he’s a real game cock when his dander’s up.”

  “What do I owe you?” Skimpole asked.

  “Owe us?” Hawker affected incomprehension. “Owe us? Whatever do you mean by that, sir?”

  “We’ll let you know our fee, sir, soon as the job’s done,” Boon said.

  “You ought to get back home now, sir. Check on that young lad of yours. You’ll catch your death if you stand out here much longer.”

  “Can’t you give me an idea?” Skimpole pleaded. “Of the cost?”

  Boon beamed. “Oh, I think you’ll find our price quite within your means, sir. Quite within your means.”

  “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Goodbye, then,” Skimpole managed.

  Boon touched the brim of his cap. “Tinkety-tonk.”

  With this last perplexing valediction, the two anachronisms turned and vanished into the dark. Shaking with a mixture of pain, confusion and the cold, and trying not to think about the nature of what he had set in motion, Skimpole pulled his jacket tight about him and started for home.

  No doubt Mr. Clemence did not intend to appear as suspicious as he did whilst he waited beneath the shadow of the Monument. But as he paced shiftily up and down, two dimmed lanterns by his feet, checking his pocket watch far more often than was necessary, he could scarcely have drawn more attention to himself had he worn a placard around his neck proclaiming his imminent intention of breaking the law.

  Without warning, the shadows disgorged Edward Moon and the Somnambulist.

  “My apologies if we’ve kept you waiting,” the conjuror said.

  “Not to worry. Though if we could hurry, gentlemen, I’d be grateful. The sooner we get out of here, the better, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “We’re ready.”

  Clemence led them away from the Monument and toward the darkened flight of steps which led to King William Street Underground Station. A metal grille, padlocked shut, was pulled across the entrance. Clemence produced a key from his pocket, snapped open the lock, pulled back the grille. It groaned and complained in response and they all stood still and silent, waiting to see if the noise had attracted any attention. Nothing.

  This was the financial district of the city, invariably deserted at night as the bankers, brokers and moneymen scurried home to their supper and an evening by the fireside. Besides, all this took place on a Sunday, when even the most fiscally devoted stayed in with their wives and children or (in at least two dozen cases of which I am personally aware) with their mistresses and lovers.

  The last time Moon was there he had been walking with Cribb, as the ugly man kept up a steady stream of fantastical chatter, speculating wildly about London’s history, anecdotalizing about the great Stone and propounding the most curious notions concerning the relative heights of the Monument and Nelson’s Column. But now, at midnight, the place was a ghost town, barely recognizable but for the great needle of the Monument keeping its silent vigil like some landlocked Pharos.

  Clemence passed one of the lamps to the Somnambulist. “Follow me.”

  Looking around for a final time to check they were still unobserved, the three men stepped through the gateway and into the gloom, down the staircase, past the ticket office and onto the deserted platform. For an instant the Somnambulist fancied that he could hear the familiar clank, whistle and chug of a locomotive, but when he listened again the sound had vanished.

  Clemence beckoned for them to follow. “It’s not far.” He clambered down off the platform and onto the tracks.

  “You’re quite sure they don’t run trains down here?”

  “At this time of night?”

  Moon sighed. “We’re in your hands, Mr. Clemence.”

  The railwayman strode away and they followed, leaving the relative safety of the platform behind as they headed into the tunnels, those mysterious warrens beneath the city, glimpsed by her inhabitants only as a monochrome whirl passed during the course of a journey back to the light.

  Moon felt a sudden need to fill the silence. “Mr. Clemence? Are you a superstitious man?”

  “Can’t say as I am. I’m a practical sort. Level-headed.”

  “Then you don’t believe in fortune tellers? Clairvoyants?”

  “Not given it much thought. Why do you ask?”

  “I knew one.”

  “That so?”

  “And if she was correct, then today is the day that the city shall fall.”

  “Ah, she were probably just making it up. Most of her sort are jokers, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “Perhaps.”

  The walked along the track for what Moon estimated must have been about half a mile, brushing past the grime and dirt encrusted onto the walls like plaque on rotting teeth. The Somnambulist felt a strong sensation that they were being watched: he could hear the skittering and scratching of the little creatures whose home this was.

  Clemence stopped short as the track split into two. “We’re about halfway between stations. Here’s what the men were working when the trouble started.” He pointed ahead. “That track leads on to the next station. But this—” he gestured toward the track which curved to the left into a narrow tunnel — “this was abandoned.” He walked on, the lamplight straining against the darkness which down here seemed thicker and more complete than ever.

  The track petered out a few minutes’ walk from the main tunnel. Clemence apologized. “They stopped in a hurry,” he said, moving past the remnants of the track and into the dirt and shale. “Here’s why.”

  Set into the ground was a wooden trapdoor, painted a faded green. If one were to have chanced upon it above-ground, one would most naturally assume it to be an entrance to a cellar or a basement, containing nothing more sinister than firewood, or coal, or a collection of half-forgotten old junk. But here at the end of a tunnel far beneath the surface, it was distressingly peculiar, filled with incongruous menace.

  Clemence seemed unaccountably pleased with himself. “This is it.”

  Moon said nothing. Struggling for a moment, he eventually succeeded in pulling up the trapdoor. Darkness yawned beneath them, a deep vertical tunnel with a flicker of light gleaming distantly at the end of it. The Somnambulist moved his lantern closer, revealing a metal ladder clinging to the inner edge of the hideous drop.

  Clemence gave a nervous cough. “Here’s where I leave you.”

  “Thank you.” Moon passed the man his handful of coins. You’ve been a great help.”

  “Pleasure.” Clemence began to move away, transparently eager to depart. “Mr. Moon?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Be careful.”

  He vanished back into the outer tunnel. Moon watched him go. “We climb toward the light,” he said and swung himself into the tunnel, grasping the ladder firmly, and began to move slowly downwards. He called up to his friend. “Coming?”

  Frantically the Somnambulist tried to remind Moon of his fear of heights, but his efforts were rendered invisible by the gloom.

  “Don’t worry,” Moon said lightly. “It’s too dark to see how high we are.” He clambered further down and the giant followed suit. Had he been able to mutter resentfully under his breath,
no doubt he would have done so.

  Roger Clemence emerged back onto the station platform to find a well-fed, ruddy-faced man waiting for him, clutching what looked like a half-eaten pastry.

  “Evening, Mr. Clemence.”

  “Mr. McDonald.”

  The fat man took a meaty bite, chewing noisily, like a dog truffling through a bowl of leftovers. “It’s done, then?”

  “Signed, sealed, delivered.”

  “At last. We were starting to wonder if he’d get there at all.”

  “He’s not what he was, you know. He’s past his best. Worn out. Used up. Shop-soiled.”

  “I know.” Donald McDonald smiled. “That’s precisely why we want him.”

  After an age of climbing, Edward Moon and the Somnambulist emerged into the light. Shaking a little from his ordeal, the giant stepped with obvious relief from the final rung of the ladder back onto solid earth. They looked around them, drinking in the sounds, sights and smells of Love.

  At last, Moon broke the silence. “I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed.”

  The Somnambulist just looked glum. They were in some kind of storeroom, surrounded by empty boxes, old bottles and rotting sacks. There was an unpleasant odor, too, as though meat had been allowed to spoil. Moon walked toward the door. “Let’s hope things prove more interesting out there.”

  They found themselves in a big round room, currently deserted but evidently used as a dining hall or refectory of some kind. Chairs and trestle tables were set out before them in regimented rows, and at the far end of the room, beneath a balcony arranged for public address, a gigantic banner hung upon the wall. It depicted a symbol they had seen many times before: a black, five-petaled flower.

  Moon could not resist an exclamation of delight. “At last.”

  The Somnambulist looked less overjoyed — already suspecting, perhaps, the true nature of what they had stumbled into.

  “Edward!” The voice reverberated across the room.

  Moon turned around. A gloriously familiar figure stood before them.

  “I’m so glad you made it.”

  Moon laughed with a mixture of gratitude and relief. There may even have been tears nudging the corners of his eyes. “Charlotte! Thank God. Are you all right?”