Whitechapel Gods Read online

  A gift.

  Aaron floated up and took it.

  John Scared knew he was immune to the clacks, and he did not know why. The question bothered him, as all unanswered questions did. If he did not know the reason, he could not be sure of the result.

  Perhaps that was why these poor, diseased wretches made him uncomfortable.

  He leaned heavily on his cane. Below, dockworkers struggled to unload the goods descending by crane from two zeppelins tethered to the Aldgate spire. No single class seemed as afflicted with the mechanical growths as the dockworkers. They shambled around like parodies of men, covered in gleaming iron pustules, hobbling on malformed brass legs, and picking at ropes and crates with hooked hands and fingerless steel stubs.

  Why don’t you tell me what they are? he asked of the hot tingling in the back of his mind. Are they the result of inhaling your breath, my dear? Little spores cast off by the belching of your long throat, nestling in places warm and wet and springing to vibrant life?

  “Tick, tick, tick,” he muttered. A bad habit. He did it for no good reason, but that it might annoy her.

  He lifted his gaze to the Stack beyond and watched it flare to crimson life. A cloud of black foulness like the tenth plague gushed up into the air.

  Ah, my lovely, my dear, my sweet mistress. I do not understand you. Any one of your beloved children would be faithful to you until the oily grave took him, and yet you place your trust in me. You are a stupid, stupid creature.

  John Scared was not averse to stupidity, as long as it was practiced by others.

  He turned from the electric glare of the dock lights, hobbling like a cripple to the opposite end of the rooftop of the Pilot’s Club, where Boxer hung suspended by his feet from a hook.

  Astride the trapdoor leading to the Club’s highest floor, where men gambled their livelihood away on fixed games, stood a broad-shouldered man in rigid military pose. Two shifting-eyed boys huddled together just forward of his reach. Scared waved at the two children.

  “Come forward, my grubbers. Time for a lesson.”

  Scared read them as they advanced. Each piece of them became a variable: the motion of the eyes, the dip of the shoulders, the speed of the breath, the weight of the footfall. These he categorised mentally and applied against a mathematical function long ago devised, and the boys’ personalities became plain to his understanding. The one on the left, called Shoe, was good for nothing more than spying and fodder. The one on the right, called Tuppence—that one could be moulded. Another Penny, perhaps, if there was time enough for more lessons.

  “Did you know, children,” Scared said, “that this hook was originally added to allow a piano to be hauled to the second storey? The piano fell and crushed the club’s original owner.” He turned to Boxer. “An accident. And a fortunate one it was for me, as it put the club on the market. Don’t you agree?”

  The man called Boxer hung mute and shirtless, facing the blackness of Bishop’s Gate tower, and beyond that, the muted lights of London. His arms had been excellently bound behind his back by bands of iron—pounded into shape while still hot.

  “Gather here, grubbers. You must see. Come, now, don’t be shy or there may be no food at all.”

  Like hungry dogs they padded up, unconsciously rubbing their little tummies. Scared swept his arms wide, gathering them together in front of him. He settled his fingers on their shoulders, one hand on each boy, and thrilled at the warmth and the shivers he felt. He knelt behind, leaning over them so that the folds of his cloak encircled them like the wings of a mother bird.

  “This man has done a bad thing,” Scared explained. “He has lied to me, you see. One may lie as much as one likes, so long as one tells only the truth to me.”

  He fetched his cane and poked Boxer’s shoulder. The man slowly rotated around to face them. His chest had been opened, the skin peeled back and pinned to the edges of the torso. An iron plate had been riveted across his mouth. The children gasped and drew back against the rough wool of Scared’s coat. He held them steady as they tried to hide their faces.

  “Yes, it is horrible, my dears. Your reaction is nothing to be ashamed of. After more lessons—and there will be many more—I will teach you to appreciate the artistry of what our good hunchback has done here.”

  The military man behind them shifted the position of his feet.

  Scared pointed forward with his cane, indicating the red glow that issued from between Boxer’s exposed ribs.

  “You see this, grubbers? Mr. Boxer’s heart is not like yours and mine. His has been replaced with a coal-burning furnace, as have his arteries and vessels been replaced with pipes. Do you know what this means, grubbers?”

  They did not respond. Through shudders and twitches, he watched bits of both of them curl up and die then and there. Innocence crushed beneath the red meat of reality. A thing of beauty, is the growth of a child. Would you not agree, my love?

  “It means,” he said, “that Mr. Boxer is a black cloak. He doesn’t wear a cloak, of course. Being a deceitful man, he has endeavoured to hide his nature from me since he came into my employ.”

  Scared deftly flicked the latch holding Boxer’s furnace closed. Boxer growled something unintelligible.

  “That was his first lie to me. But he is a bad liar, and thus I have known about his treachery for some time now.”

  Scared passed his cane to Tuppence. “Go on, now. Give him a poke.”

  Tuppence reached up a shaking hand and wrapped his little stubby fingers around the cane’s silver head. The polished mahogany gleamed red in the Stack’s omnipresent glow. Tuppence stood still, eyes fixed on Boxer’s gaping chest, as if unsure what to do next. John placed two fingers under the boy’s arm and urged it up. With but a few hesitations, Tuppence reached out with the cane and tapped it against Boxer’s side. He then quickly withdrew, shrinking close to himself. Boxer made no sound.

  “Good, good,” Scared said. “Did you feel the way the flesh bounces back? Elasticity, it’s called: the pressure of moisture and fluid inside the body pushes the cane away.”

  The two boys nodded slowly.

  “Give the head a turn, my child. Come, I’ll show you.”

  Scared placed one hand over the boy’s, gripping the cane’s length with the other. Gently, he guided the little fingers in a slow swivelling of the cane’s head. The boy jumped as a four-inch spring-loaded blade shot out the far end.

  “Now give him another. In the same spot.”

  He let his fingertips linger on the back of the boy’s hand as he withdrew. That was the softest part, between the rough knuckles and the bony wrist. And very soft, indeed, on this one.

  This time Tuppence needed no coaching. He reached out with the blade and stabbed a quick hole in Boxer’s flank, close to the kidney. Black oil-blood spurted out. Both children jumped back and John caught them with one hand against each small back. The blood splattered against the wall one storey down.

  Scared gently retrieved his cane from Tuppence’s shaking hand.

  Using the cane’s blade, he tapped on several of Boxer’s mechanical parts as he spoke. “You will notice,” he said, “that these parts of his shed no blood or oil, while these”—he ground the blade through a muscle—“shed plenty.”

  Boxer grunted but did not speak. John wedged the blade to a secure position between the ribs and left the cane hanging from Boxer’s body.

  “This man cannot be killed by the shedding of blood, grubbers. He has rejected the precious flesh given him by Our Lord, and embraced the fallacy of the machine. Now pay attention. I will show you how to kill such a man.”

  Scared seesawed the cane from its resting place and deftly flicked open the slotted door covering Boxer’s furnace, releasing a pulse of red light and a wash of heat. He then carefully scraped out a thimbleful of embers, which fluttered down towards the glow of Aldgate Tower and vanished.

  “Mr. Boxer’s body is not heated by blood, but coal. Deprived of this substance, he will cool and fr
eeze, and then he will rot like meat left too long untended. Whether he will actually die…” Scared shrugged. “That is up to Mama Engine.”

  And you do have a hard time letting go, don’t you, my sweet?

  He scraped the rest of the coals from Boxer’s chest, leaving only a smattering of tiny embers coating the edges of the chamber. That done, he pressed the cane’s blade into the rooftop and forced it to retract once more.

  “I have one more task for you, my grubbers, and this lesson will be over.” Scared dug out of one pocket two lumps of coal. He passed one to each of the boys. “Both of you will stand or sit, as you please, at the edge of the roof and offer him your coal. Hold your coal out to him as far as you can reach, and ask him if he would like it.” He made earnest eye contact with each lad as he spoke. “Now, you are not to give him any, no matter his answer. Simply ask him over and over. Do this until I come back to retrieve you; then there will be as much food as you can eat.”

  The boys nodded, Tuppence more confidently than Shoe. John Scared guided them to the edge of the roof, his fingers gracing their delicate shoulders. He listened for a moment as their quiet voices made the offers, and Boxer replied with weak, muffled squeals. Then he left them to their work and hobbled over to the trapdoor.

  “Something troubling you, Sebastian?” he asked.

  Sebastian Moran rubbed his round chin before answering. “Not that I would doubt your methods, sir, but your treatment of Mr. Boxer is…unsporting.”

  Scared chuckled. “I do enjoy your outdated sentiments, my friend. I might have had him shot or tossed from the tower, but he presented an invaluable instructional opportunity for the children.”

  Scared shuffled to the dockside edge of the roof. Moran clasped his hands behind his back and kept with Scared’s halting pace.

  “Children are indeed a blessing, are they not, Sebastian?” Scared said.

  Moran coughed. “I wouldn’t know, sir. They don’t make terribly sporting targets.”

  “I regret never having any of my own, you know,” said John. “Though perhaps that was unavoidable, as no woman I have ever met seemed fit to bear them. Have you any children, Sebastian?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  Beyond the docks, another zeppelin angled towards the dock’s spire, cables already descending to be fastened on. It pitched and slid to its port as a gust of hot air from the Stack jostled it. The red, white, and black of the German empire came into sharp relief as the vessel floated into the powerful electric lights of the dock. The silence dragged for some moments.

  Scared sighed. “No reminiscing tonight, eh, my friend? Very well. You have a report to make, I’m certain.”

  Moran nodded again, stiffly, and began in crisp military tones. “The Crown agent captured by the Boiler Men was named Aaron Bolden. My contacts in the gold cloaks report he was hooked to the Chimney soon after he arrived.”

  “I assumed as much. Even if he hadn’t been, I don’t expect any ordinary man to long keep his secrets in such hands.” He rubbed a dull ache out of one elbow. “Bolden, though. I wondered who could have penetrated my defences. The man’s knack with machinery is legendary.”

  “He’s still alive, sir. Boxer’s team failed to remove him.”

  “That was immaterial, Sebastian. I merely had to get Boxer out of the hideout while I moved my operations to locations unknown to him. He was a spy for the crows, and though I am unlikely to be arrested on account of my high allegiances, I do not want the bother of some ambitious young cloak causing trouble.”

  “I see.”

  “Von Herder will have a rifle for you by tomorrow evening. Are you certain everything is in place?”

  Moran snorted, incensed. “My men are not to be doubted, Scared.”

  Scared laughed. “A mere prick in the flank to rile you to superb performance, my friend. No disrespect was meant.” John squinted against a gust of wind kicked up by the landing zeppelin’s propellers. “Our dear baron has far too much loyalty to his patron deities. It is a pity his fate must be a messy one. It will be a stain on an otherwise artful enterprise.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  John read the man’s sudden uncertainty without having to look at him. “Ask your question, Sebastian.”

  Moran cleared his throat. “Again, sir, not that I doubt your methods, but Grandfather Clock is only half the problem. What will we do about the Lady and the black cloaks?”

  Scared looked out at the Stack’s glowing apex. What indeed, my sweet? What shall we do with you?

  “Grandfather Clock is a creature of logic and precision,” John said. “He allows neither change nor error and can be handled in no way other than destruction. Mama Engine, however, is a creature of sentiment, a mother in truth. Leave her to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Our conference is at an end. Return to your men and prepare.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Moran quit the roof by the trapdoor, leaving Scared alone with the distant clamour of the dock and the quiet voices of the two children.

  The children would run away tonight, shortly after their meal. Repulsed by horror at him and at themselves, they would hide in those holes they knew best. And in a few days or weeks, when they got hungry again, they would return. They would endure more lessons to quiet their hunger. They would grow. Eventually they would see no need to leave.

  Ah, I am ever accepting, my sweet. Ever patient.

  The Stack threw its hellish glare into the sky. The heat in John’s brain stem quivered, like a lover shuddering in a tight embrace.

  But though we each love dearly our adopted sons and daughters, they will never be enough, will they?

  Just think of what wonderful children we will make, once I have tamed you.

  He turned from the docks to see if Boxer was dead yet.

  Chapter 8

  This is the crux of my self-made oblivion: I am not Job, who can endure endless quantities of earthly hardship, but a weak man and a slave to drink and opium. The hand that now pens these alien letters would have been my destroyer, but that They promised me an emptiness without emotion or memory, a release so much more profound than the restless slumber of death. How could I refuse?

  And to my shame: even knowing what is to come, I do not regret.

  II. iii

  Oliver awoke to the cold.

  It was not cold as he knew it. In the perpetual heat of the city, he knew cold to be merely a temperature at which one did not constantly sweat. He did not know it as the shriveling chill that now assailed him.

  It was as if all the strength had been sucked from his muscles, all the sturdiness from his bones. He quaked uncontrollably, clutching feebly at his collar to draw it tighter. His heart lay still, his blood stagnant. His lungs scraped a minimum of air through chattering teeth, when he breathed at all. His body felt like a great hollow cavity, its sides ancient and flaking away.

  He knew himself to be dying, and so did she. The subtle heat of her furnace miles distant played on the back of his neck. It beckoned to him with the promise of its warmth.

  Oliver buried his creaking, shaking fingers in his armpits and waited for the darkness to take him.

  Someone shook him.

  “Ollie? Still with us?”

  Oliver pried his eyes open. The world swished in front of him like soapy water.

  The hand shook him again. It was warm and large. Oliver drew in a lungful of scalding hot air, which spread rapidly into his body, reviving him enough to speak.

  “T-Tom?”

  “He lives! Our own John Bull—knew we could count on you, chap. Looks like they gave you a grand thumping, though.”

  Two powerful hands slid under his armpits and scooped him up. Tommy’s greasy stench enveloped him. Once released, Oliver staggered back into an uneven, moist wall. He drew in a second, deeper breath, realizing from the taste of it that his mouth was full of blood. He rubbed his eyes until they came back into focus.

  He found himself in the c
ourtyardlike end of a back alley that he recognised as being just off Petticoat Lane. Tommy’s bureau-wide shoulders plugged most of the alley’s width, but Oliver made out two smaller shapes behind him.

  Tom looked like an aged sow happy her piglet had come home.

  “Haven’t seen you for almost an hour, mate. Feared they’d picked you off.”

  Oliver nodded but said nothing. Each breath brought him further back to wakefulness and gave his body more life. The muscles in his arms quivered and could move again. The cold fled, burying itself in the pits of his gut.

  Someone had bandaged his burnt hand—recently, as the wraps were still free of blood and grime. The skin he could see between the wraps and his cuff was red from exposure. In his left hand, he still clutched a folded newspaper and his newly acquired copy of the Summa Machina.

  His heart beat, and the sudden pressure of blood blinded him.

  “Careful, old chap,” Tommy said, propping Oliver upright with a meaty palm to his right arm. “Better get your head on. We’ve a slight change of plan.”

  One of the smaller men squeezed past and tossed Oliver a rifle. He snatched at it and dropped it, then bent to retrieve it and managed on the second try.

  The shadows resolved themselves into Winfred Bailey Howe’s broad moustache and humourless eyes. “Everything well in hand, I see,” he said.

  That roused enough ire to bring Oliver fully back to life. “You were to be here some time ago, if I recall.”

  Bailey’s jaw muscles flexed before he spoke. “The murder of most of my men at our hideout necessitated an alteration in the plan,” he said. “How did you come to be found in such an undignified position?”

  Oliver started as he discovered that he wasn’t entirely sure. He remembered the escape, then running into the street, crowds of people he recognised, then charred bones, then people again, then a blur. He tried to keep his indecision from his face as he concocted a plausible story.

  It occurred to him that Bailey didn’t really want an answer: he had already concluded that some pack of canaries had taken Oliver unawares, and that Oliver was a careless amateur. Fine by me. I’m through trying to change your opinion, old man.