Call Me Ismay (22 page)

There was a brief silence, and then a second, taller figure appeared a few steps behind Gidley. “And what if that were indeed the case, young lad?” asked Edward Lyons.

“Then it would be my-
our
responsibility to report it to the public,” Stanley called out.

“Ah, yes, the reporters, the press, the saviors. The last barrier between Us- the ruling class- and total chaos, moral depravity. Always on vigilant watch to catch Us in the act of subverting the rights of the downtrodden.” Lyons, a thin yet imposing figure, leaned over Gidley's shoulder for a closer look at Stanley, who was clutching his ribs and fighting to keep his balance. “Must be a tiring existence- that constant lust for glory.”

“It's nothing to do with glory, and you should know better, Mr. Lyons.” Stanley felt a violent cough coming on, and he knew that doing so would subject his ribcage to a maelstrom of pain. He turned his head away and spit out into the bushes what he was pretty sure was blood. He thought he heard an unnerving sort of groan come from Gidley, but he regained his own composure and cast an unwavering glance at Lyons. “I only want to start for something simple, like the truth.”

“Don't delude yourself, young man. The truth is just another form of belief, and a man can make himself believe anything- even convincing others that he holds beliefs he doesn't.” Lyons seemed to size up Stanley for a moment before continuing.

“Perhaps it can be proven- even
evangelized
- that the poor beleaguered MP from East Surrey didn't abandon His post, but was instead chased, unfairly forced to leave by a constituency that had all but abandoned Him, misled by the rantings of a disgruntled press with an agenda. The irresponsible politician becomes a martyr, sacrificed by an overzealous fiefdom of newspapers.” He smiled mysteriously, and let himself chuckle quietly. “I've grown quite weary of this never-ending shell game, this constant maneuvering. This great social experiment, this fight for women's suffrage, appears to be leading nowhere, as so far as England is concerned. Perhaps it's time for a fresh start with a whole new independent republic, with Bartholomew Gidley seated at the exalted right hand of Edward Lyons.” Both men laughed quietly in dark brotherhood.

“Ambitious, and untrue. Do you care, Mr. Lyons, about women's suffrage? Truly, do you?” Stanley was amazed at some of his own words, but was finally starting to sense that Lyons mainly had his own interests at heart. “Are you truly willing to sacrifice your political career, or are you just employing a different tactic in an effort to get your own way? Do you suppose that you'll be able to set up your own form of government in Utah?”

Lyons and Gidley appeared thunderstruck. “Oh yes, yes, I know all about Utah, or at least your plans to move there,” Stanley laughed defiantly, still rubbing his aching side. “And the
Chronicle
should be more than happy to announce that story from every corner in London. Don't presume that it wouldn't.”

Gidley, his face as grave as the cemetery that surrounded them, turned to Lyons. “Should I dispatch him right here, Sir?”

Lyons was nearly causal in his response. “At least wait until I am out of sight, and unknown to know. At that time, to Thine own self be true, Mr. Gidley.”

Stanley's eyes darted between the two men, waiting for a sign of humor in their exchange. “Come, now, you're inventing this, all right? There's no need to take this any further.”

Lyons pulled a pair of gloves from his coat pocket, his tone still matter-of-fact. “Wait until I am at least a bit out of earshot. I do believe I have some documents to sign this afternoon, and a spot of tea later on. Mr. Gidley, see to it that Lillith has it prepared on time.”

Stanley's lips trembled. “Mr. Lyons, the time for jocularity has come and gone. You must be held accountable as to why it is that you're leaving East Surrey for-”

“Good day, sir,” Lyons cooly interrupted. “And Mr. Gidley, ensure this time that Your suit remains unspoiled. Let's have no repetition of that incident at the Moroccan Embassy.”

“Indeed, Sir,” Gidley obediently replied, while Lyons walked away without saying another word.

“What incident at the Moroccan Embassy? What's he on about?” Stanley asked, clutching his side.

Gidley turned to Stanley. “When My overcoat was bloodied by some unpleasant business a few months ago, I just told the Moroccans that We'd had an earlier appointment that day at a pig farm. Mr. Lyons panicked because He didn't know as I did that Morocco is one of the few Muslim countries that allows the consumption of pork!” Gidley began to roar with laughter, while Stanley wobbled on his feet, unsure if he was the victim of a practical joke, being encouraged to believe in something that was untrue.

“Mr. Gidley, that is enough,” Stanley declared. “You've had your amusement for today which, by the way,  has almost certainly left me with broken bones.”

“This is not for amusement,” Gidley suddenly growled, the laughter disappearing from his voice completely. “This is for blood credits. Mr. Lyons got His belly full from Lillith last night. Now it's My turn, Mr. Langston.” His dark eyes took a disturbing turn towards something even more sinister, and he began to remove his gloves.

“Mister...
Langston
?” Stanley stared in wide-eyed astonishment at Gidley, uncomprehending. He then convulsed with fear, shoving Gidley away from him with as much force as he could muster. He spun around, trying to see past the edge of the crypt, calling about to Edward Lyons. “Mr. Lyons, sir! Mr. Lyons! This is all so very unnecessary! I'm not even Kerry Langston- there's been a misunderstanding! We won't publish the story! We won't publish the-”

Crying out for Edward Lyons, with his back turned to Bartholomew Gidley, was his last conscious act. He had no time to react as Gidley brought a brick down on the side of his head with tremendous force, shredding his scalp and even tearing off part of his ear. Stanley crumpled to the ground like a dismantled scarecrow. Gidley licked his own bloodied fingers, and then with quiet glee dragged Stanley's body over what had once been farmland to the furthest corner of the burial ground at Putney Vale Cemetery. Grunting under his breath, Gidley could just barely be heard to be half-singing a strange bit of doggerel:

“Life's but a shadow, man's but dust, this dial says die we all must.”

CHAPTER TEN

April 10th, 1912

The man seated on a crate at the dockside at Berth 44 in Southampton knew that he needed to give serious consideration to replacing his worn-out shoes. He had just observed that a rather large hole had appeared in the sole of one of them.

However, the hole in his shoe seemed utterly insignificant, as he clutched a bundle of clothes to his chest in an effort to gain a little warmth. Indeed, he hadn't found himself in such a state of awestruck wonder since he had first gazed upon the Parish Church of All Saints, Winkleigh the previous autumn.

As Kerry Langston took in the sight before him, it seemed that man's attempt to conquer the elements, to sail the sea-
any
sea, anywhere, anytime- had at last been perfected. At the same time, the daunting structure- seeming to make its own grandiose statement by merely existing- carried the human quest for invincibility in such a way that it managed to both celebrate and marginalize the men surrounding it. Several times that morning, he had allowed himself to step forward far enough so that the only detail in his line of vision was a black steel wall, punctuated by portholes and hundreds of thousands of rivets. He would then step back, further and further and then further still until at last the outlines of the rest of the behemoth began to take shape, but only barely. To his left, the vaguest suggestion of a ship's bow, to his right, its stern that seemed to curve off into the distance. Overhead were hints of rigging and the tips of smokestacks. Langston had to remind himself that he was looking at a ship and not a building. Some of the only reminders at this distance that the steel leviathan was indeed nautical were the sounds of a few seagulls and the unmistakable, somewhat brackish, smell of seawater.

Only a sudden pang of hunger was able to briefly pull Langston from his reverie, as he gazed upon the great sea liner. His dietary habits as of late had been atrocious, his ever-sensitive stomach apparently unable to tolerate even the blandest of meals. However, the previous night at a Southampton boarding house, he had overheard a substantial amount of chatter regarding the meals that awaited even the lowly third class passengers of this particular ship. Meals on a ship were not something usually regarded as anything other than spectacularly awful, but rumor had it that the White Star Line had set a new standard with its accommodations and food for everyone on board. After what had been an especially difficult and uncomfortable spring, Langston fervently hoped it was true.

Langston had been puzzling all morning over the ship's name. The most obvious connection he could make concerned the ship's impossibly large size. Clearly, the White Star Line was invoking those huge beings of incredible strength within Greek mythology by using the word 'Titan' within the vessel's full name,
Titanic
. However, his writer's mind, despite an incomplete time at university, couldn't help but be amused that Titan was also the name of Saturn's largest moon, a celestial object so immense in size and yet invisible to the naked eye. It seemed to him that this 'Titan' made everything else in its proximity invisible. The
Titanic
had without question declared its dominance of the Southampton port not only with its grandeur but its apparent insatiable appetite for coal. Nearly every other ship in the vicinity, and their numbers constituted a fair sized armada, were tied to their moorings and largely abandoned. The national coal miner's strike, which had been settled only days before, meant that the White Star Line had to scramble its resources in order to feed the
Titanic's
hungry belly, even if that meant purchasing every coal stash in sight and leaving all other ships to sail another day. Langston continually caught himself with his mouth agape, feeling foolish at his naked astonishment. He watched a seemingly endless procession of crew members and passengers boarding the ship by gangways and huge electric cranes lifting tons of luggage and supplies, all of it headed to America.

Langston had more than a bit of trepidation in travelling to the United States- until this day, his own travelling experiences were limited entirely to within the United Kingdom. As a British observer, Langston found himself confused over how a republic could refer to itself as the
United
States, when most of the news that came over indicated a wild landscape of assassinations, lynchings, rioting, crime. Of course, Langston had also been aware of other things that weren't attached to the American Dream in the form of nightmares. Many a friend or relative had waxed eloquently over its vast and inspiring geography, its generosity of spirit, and particularly of the adventure and opportunities that were to be found in the Western part of the country. A few states, such as California and Utah, were both described as a “Second Eden.” Langston pictured himself on the decks of the ship above, beholding the Statue of Liberty as it appeared through mists of fog as the
Titanic
approached New York.

Langston wondered- foolishly, he knew- if Lillith might be at his side as the American coastline approached. He realized it was highly unlikely, as he watched a team of doctors examining his fellow steerage passengers in precisely the same fashion that a farmer would treat a horse.
She'll be at Lyons's heel, who certainly could not possibly be carrying any type of contagious infection as a well-to-do first class passenger,
Langston thought to himself bitterly.
If these doctors only knew.

He had taken an enormous risk in attempting to shadow Lyons across the Atlantic. He had taken her words of caution to leave London immediately quite literally. He had abandoned his work at the
Chronicle,
never appearing at the offices again, and left the keys
to his flat on Brathway Road at his landlady's door, sealed up in an envelope and without explanation. In a sack he had gathered some clothes, his diary, his last letter from Lillith and- buried deep in his belongings- the ominous vampire kit. Before leaving, he did not take an opportunity to scrape off the candle wax he had left on the table, the hardened blob of red that formed the letter “G”, fancying it as a rebellious statement. Whom exactly it was meant for, he could not say.  Perhaps he left it behind for Stanley Johns to find, except that he had not heard from the young man since their meeting with Lillith.