Whitechapel Gods Page 13

  “They got the drop on me,” Oliver said.

  Bailey loosed a guttural noise of frustration. “And the hand?”

  Assaulted briefly by the memory, Oliver was tempted to actually tell the truth. Fine idea, man: tell him you were visited and invaded by our mortal enemy—a sure way to earn the man’s trust.

  “I burned it on a stove during the tussle.”

  “And I suppose they bandaged it for you?”

  “No, sir. I escaped, then bandaged it. They found me again shortly thereafter.”

  Bailey nodded satisfaction, though his eyes still searched Oliver’s face. “Walk it off,” he said. “Mr. Moore, here, Mr. Macrae, and yourself are to accompany us to the downstreets. I’ve left Heckler in charge of the Underbelly.”

  Oliver’s hackles rose. “You’ve given orders to my crew.”

  “Had you been among your men and conscious, I wouldn’t have had to do it.” Bailey spun on his heel and marched away, brushing Tommy aside with the sheer force of his presence. “We must leave immediately. Scared’s group has several hours on us already.”

  Bailey and the man accompanying him strode away towards the flickering lights of Petticoat Lane.

  Tom dropped his voice.

  “‘Mr. Moore,’” he scoffed. “Like I’m a gentleman or some foolishness. So what happened, really?”

  Oliver felt some tension ease away in the presence of Tommy’s toothy grin. “I’ll tell you when I sort it out.”

  “That’s fair.” He indicated the book. “Never fancied you for a reading man.”

  Oliver turned the book cover up. The title and author’s name glittered on the front cover—inlaid gold?

  “I was talked into buying it, I’m afraid.” Oliver stowed it back under his arm. “We’ll pass it to Michelle on our way through the square.”

  Oliver gestured to get moving, and Tommy began his clunking walk out of the alley.

  “‘Michelle’?” he asked.

  Oliver shrugged. “She tells me that’s what she prefers.”

  Tommy grinned over his shoulder. “Does she now?”

  Oliver did not have the energy to scry the meaning in that statement. Echoes of the flaming hell he’d glimpsed reverberated in his mind. It must have distracted him visibly, for when he next looked up, Tommy loomed down at him with a quirk of concern in his perpetual smile.

  “Sure you’re all right, Chief?”

  Oliver nodded. “Fine enough to move my feet, Tom. I just…I never realised exactly what we were up against before. The Lord and Lady—they’re not natural, Tommy.”

  Tommy nodded, jaw set, face grim.

  Oliver sighed. “We’re in deep-shit trouble.”

  “Wait until you see the Ticker Hounds” was Tom’s answer.

  It was a thrill to have a gun.

  Just to hold it gave Missy tingles. The cold of it, the heaviness, the etched scrollwork on the cylinder—these things were alluring in a way, titillating almost. Her stomach burst with butterflies, and she turned it over and over.

  “It’s just a bitty one,” said Heckler, who flinched every time she waved the barrel in his direction. “Think it might do for you, though, being not too bad on the wrists.”

  “It’s marvelous,” Missy said. “No wonder men so fancy the things.” Her gloves whispered against the wooden grip as she wrapped her fingers around it.

  Heckler held his hands slightly forward, as if Missy held something fragile. “ ’S just a .38 and not much good beyond, say, fifty yards.”

  “Oh, I very much doubt I would be able to hit anything at that distance,” said Missy. She took aim at an unfortunate sconce over a nearby doorway. “It is a fine specimen, as guns go?”

  “Prettier’n most, if that’s what you mean.”

  Missy sighted on a scuttling clickrat at the far end of the alley. “Forgive my ignorance, but I did not think guns were judged on their appearance.”

  “Oh…er…” Heckler shuffled a bit. “ ’S all right in terms of power.”

  “How many shots would it take to kill someone?”

  The American flushed. “Now, ma’am, that ain’t no proper talk…”

  “Oh, hush. You’re beginning to sound like Tom and Phineas. Why lend it to me at all if you’re just going to become squeamish and womanly?”

  Missy smiled as the young man seesawed visibly between masculine pride telling him not to be womanly and masculine pride telling him not to be talked to in such a way by a woman. Eventually, he steadied himself, straightened his suspenders, and replied, “Depends on where you hit ’em, ma’am.”

  “Where would you suggest?”

  “Uh…chest is good. Head’s better but a harder shot. Stomach’s good too, but real slow.” Heckler swallowed. “Bad way to go.”

  “Is it.”

  The alley had one guttering oil lantern that had not been cleaned in some time. That and the light flooding in from Coll’s Bystreet combined to give the metal a multitoned fire.

  “Look, ma’am, you be careful with it,” Heckler said. “It ain’t no toy.”

  “I’m quite aware of what it is, Heckler.”

  “Well…just, I’ve seen a lot of folk shoot off their own fingers, or their brother’s toes and such.”

  She shook her finger playfully. “Mothering me again, little man. That will not do.” She dropped the gun into her small leather handbag, where it landed with an energetic thump. She hefted her handbag a little to feel the weight.

  Heckler looked at her curiously.

  “For protection, you say, miss?”

  Missy smiled broadly. “Surely you cannot object to it in such times as these.”

  “Best protection’s not to get shot at.”

  Missy swept past him towards the street. “Advice I’m certain you have ignored at every opportunity. Shall we?”

  After a moment, Heckler followed her into the street.

  Coll’s Bystreet murmured under the meek blaze of four oil-fed streetlamps and one eye-stinging electric. People moved about it like shadows, spilling from the Beggar’s Parade into Marlowe Square and washing about like leaves in a river. Hawkers, musicians, and beggars stolidly held their places, while pickpockets floated around the crowds like hungry ghosts. In the centre of the square stood a smashed, dry fountain. It had been a figure once, of what Missy did not know.

  “There,” said Heckler.

  She looked up in time to spot three canaries crossing the square. Two were toughs, the kind of men she’d known too much of back in Shoreditch, in her previous life. The other seemed a gentleman of some stature, sporting an immaculate grey suit and silk hat. The electric light cut severe lines across their flowing cloaks.

  “Now, where are you three off to in such a hurry?” she thought aloud, then to Heckler: “I’ll take them.”

  Heckler nodded and moved off up the Parade towards the lift.

  Missy took a vantage point on the front steps of a tenement on the square’s corner, where she watched the cloaks jostle their way through the uncooperative crowd, who showed them only the barest of respects: a tip of the hat (causing the elbow to block the cloaks’ path), a slight bow (therefore remaining in the cloaks’ way a few seconds longer than necessary), a sales pitch (louder and more insistent than with anyone else). The tension of the crowd grew second by second.

  They’ve not forgotten the Uprising, Missy realised. Not a safe place to be a cloak, I’ll wager.

  They were heading directly for St. Margaret Street. Missy slipped into the crowd to pursue. She had chosen today a large-brimmed, backwards-slanting ash hat, an oversized wool coat, and a tweed skirt. She had also neglected any makeup, and so blended in seamlessly with the Underbelly unfortunates in the square. Hiding from view was a new activity for her, unknown before joining Oliver’s crew.

  She’d always been a feast for the eyes. In her younger years she had fancied herself a succubus, like in the old fairy tales, stripping men of all qualities but lechery and stupidity. And it was such fun—was
n’t it, bird—to watch them drool over you? And then things had changed, and the kindly old woman had turned out not to be so kindly, the men cruel and lustful and endless.

  She brought down a wall on the memories. It’s over, love. Another life. A bad dream. You have Oliver now.

  And she had a gun.

  And she’d killed. That knowledge shivered in her stomach with excitement and revulsion. It had been horrible, the feel of the act so base and vicious, and yet…the lecherous sot had gotten exactly what he deserved.

  She felt a flush creeping into her face and dropped the sentiment behind the mental wall, returning her attention to her task.

  Oliver’s lessons in pursuit came back to her. Stay behind crowds, greet people you know, look at shop windows, linger sometimes. Do not watch your fox too closely. It’s your attention on them that they will notice first, even if they don’t know you’re there.

  So she greeted passing ladies, who gave her a polite smile, and passing gents, who gave her a lingering taste with their eyes and tipped their hats. She bought an ugly tin brooch from a vendor for a penny. She hurried when the cloaks vanished momentarily over a rise in the road or behind a group of locals, so as not to lose them.

  You’d stick out like a brass boil if anyone was watching you, she said to herself. She checked around and found a few sets of eyes idly looking her way. Avoiding notice was not her strength.

  She crested a rise in the road, where the lateral slant was so pronounced the buildings on the left were a storey higher than those on the right. From that vantage she could see the Blink, shimmering in the lamplight like a city of smoke—from which all the streets had been excised. The Blink’s various roofs and balconies sported an improbable assortment of weather vanes and chimneys, lending the whole an appearance of an oversized pincushion. The cloaks hurried towards it.

  The sight of the Blink stirred up memories of the German fellow she’d followed that morning. Raw stupidity, that was. She’d been lucky to escape with her life and person intact, and yet a part of her sat with crossed arms and pouted at the memory. Why did he have to be such a gentleman? I could see it in his face, that sick, sinful desire, and yet he held back and didn’t give me the chance to stick him.

  She gasped at that thought. One hand flew to her lips.

  Oh, poor bird. What has happened to you? Suddenly her handbag felt a much heavier burden.

  Well, she couldn’t very well dispose of it here, and quite besides: it might be needed in the crooks and corners of the Blink. One never knew, in such a place.

  She loitered out front of an apartment building—as if waiting impatiently for someone to meet her there—until the cloaks had slipped out of sight into one of the Blink’s alleys. She counted ten heartbeats, then stole in after them.

  She dogged them through the Blink’s random turns, following with ease the tick-tock regularity of their footfalls. After a dozen twists, they stopped, and Missy crept to the next corner to listen.

  “Where are we, you dullards?” one of them boomed.

  “Dunno,” said another.

  “What?”

  “Er…dunno, sir?”

  “Harmony is built upon obedience, whatever-your-name-is. The spring turns the gear, and the more the gear protests, the less the efficiency of the whole.” Missy heard something that could only have been a sharp blow. “So be respectful!”

  “Er…yessir.”

  Their footsteps began again, and retreated off. Missy stepped around the corner and pursued them into a section of alley particularly twisted and misshapen.

  A hand darted from a close nook and clasped onto her shoulder.

  “That’s right! Come on!” she screamed, whirling with one rapid step and plunging her hand into her bag. Heat and rage flared up in her so rapidly that she did not recognise the wide eyes until her fingers were at the trigger with her arm tensed to draw.

  Two long-fingered hands waved surrender. “My fault. I ought to have learned from the last time I snuck up on you.”

  Missy gasped. “Oliver? You ass! Have you any idea what you almost made me do?”

  Oliver grabbed her wrist and pulled her down a side alley. “Oh, I can imagine it.”

  She flushed. “I don’t think you can. What are you doing here? What is all that?” She gestured to the pack Oliver wore, and the long rifle strapped to its side.

  Oliver ground his teeth a moment before replying. “Bailey’s called us in. We’re going down, Michelle.”

  “Down?”

  “Into the downstreets.”

  Missy stood stunned a moment, as the statement sank in.

  I told you it would not last, bird, this fantasy of yours.

  She crossed her arms to keep them from shaking. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re coming back?”

  Oliver’s smile looked forced. “That’s my plan, even if Bailey doesn’t share it.”

  “You are a poor liar, Mr. Sumner.”

  Oliver adjusted his pack’s straps and regarded her with a furrowed brow.

  “I should catch up. I stayed behind only to ensure they didn’t follow us.”

  “I suppose you should,” said Missy hotly. “Duty to England and all that rubbish.”

  “Michelle…”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Oliver.” I don’t want to hear you tell me you are not going to die, that I’m not going to have to go back to…to… “If you must follow that madman to an early grave, who am I to get in your way?”

  “I’ll be back inside a day,” he protested.

  “I don’t want to hear it! Your fool’s crusade is your own.”

  “My fool’s crusade is—”

  “You won’t come back. You know it; it’s written all over your face.”

  “Oh, for the love of Pete—here.”

  He jammed a hand at her, holding a leather-bound book. Missy looked from his eyes to the golden letters on the cover and back.

  “What kind of absurd gesture is this?” she said.

  “I’m leaving this with you,” he said. “I intend to read it when I get back. I’m told”—his face relaxed a bit—“that it’s a ripping good read.”

  “Oh, now there’s a reason for returning,” she replied, snatching the book.

  Missy knew he was staring at her, but did not raise her eyes from the golden script. As the silence dragged, she felt an unwelcome heat creeping up her neck.

  “Try not to give up on me,” he said at last. “If all goes well, we’ll be eating gruel in Sherwood by morning.”

  Missy jammed the book in her handbag.

  “Hadn’t you better be off?” she said.

  Oliver swallowed hard before replying. “I suppose I should.”

  They shared a long look, filled with unspoken words.

  Oliver turned and vanished into the alleys. Missy stood alone for a while.

  Shall you make your way back to me now, little one, or will you await the news?

  Be quiet.

  He would have had faith in her, and so she would wait until morning.

  Chapter 9

  An hour ago I severed my left hand with a hatchet. A new one has grown in its place. I now have fingers of brass and iron, fingers strong enough to accomplish my next task, which is the removal of my eyes.

  II. vi

  Oliver was afraid of heights.

  “I’m not bloody afraid of heights.”

  Tommy snorted politely. “Come now, Ollie. You’re white as a ghost.”

  “You clam up, Tom, or so help me I’ll be riding you down like a sled,” Oliver snapped.

  Defiant pride managed to rise up and choke his fear for a few seconds. Oliver stepped up to the rim of the tiny ledge and raised his lantern high. The light, focused by a curved mirror of polished silver behind the flame, shot out into the dark, returning visions of smoke and the occasional gleam, indicating the presence of a sapling steel beam. Already the glass goggles Bailey had given him had begun to blur from greasy deposits that seemed carried
on the very air.

  He glanced downwards as long as he dared, charting the treacherous hand-over-foot route down into Old Whitechapel. The “rusted stair” was a path over, under, and along the maze of beams that held up the Shadwell Underbelly and went on to support the Concourse above. The path, such as it was, had been marked by smears of yellow paint, the legacy of some long-forgotten explorer with more gumption than sense.

  People in this city have a strange definition of the word “stair.”

  Bailey had led his team down first.

  “How long, Phin?”

  Phineas, reclining against the ladder leading to the public house above, had Tommy’s captured clickrat, now eerily still, out in his palm. After a few seconds, he mumbled, “Eight minutes,” and returned to his examination.

  “Let’s prepare, then,” Oliver ordered. Bailey had directed them to wait ten minutes, and then start their descent.

  Oliver adjusted the bandages on his right hand and the kerchief over his mouth, then buckled the clumsy express rifle over his shoulders, tightening the dual straps to keep it from swinging too much. He also wore a belt of ammunition about his waist, a two-quart canteen of water at his hip, and a pack on his shoulder into which had been stuffed dried jerky, kerosene, an extra face mask, a compass, a few more bandages, a matchbox, and one stick of dynamite.

  “Why the dynamite, sir?” Oliver had asked.

  “All men in my company carry a single stick of dynamite” was Bailey’s answer.

  His load secured, Oliver slipped one foot cautiously over the edge. “I feel like a packhorse.”

  “And look like a Swiss mountain hermit,” Tommy contributed.

  “More an Edinburgh vagrant,” Phineas said, passing the rat back to Tom. “They can’t climb either.”

  Oliver found purchase on the first dull smudge of paint, set his weight on it, and slowly lowered himself from the sane, flat, sturdy ledge into total structural madness. A gust of wind shoved him sideways like a soft but insistent pillow and he had to scramble for some minutes to find spaces for his other foot and his two hands.